


Flower Arrangements

by china_shop



Category: due South
Genre: AU, Case Fic, Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-03 23:24:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 27,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which Fraser supplies sphagnum moss to Frannie's Floral Emporium.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I rarely forget a face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mergatrude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mergatrude/gifts).



> With thanks to mergatrude, cyphomandra, vaudevilles, my partner, and the Livejournal comm ficfinishing. This was posted as part of my Year of Nonsensical Plots. You have been warned. :-)
> 
> [Further author notes are on my LJ](http://china-shop.livejournal.com/790914.html).

It was a clement day, with weak sun filtering through wispy clouds. The garage doors at the back of Francesca's Floral Emporium stood open. Fraser swung into his accustomed parking space outside and switched off the van engine, squinting into the gloomy interior to see who was about. He deliberated over whether to sound his horn, a habit he'd not yet grown accustomed to even though Ray, Francesca's brother and delivery man, insisted it was common practice in Chicago. To Fraser's ears it sounded abrupt and demanding and typified much that he disliked about the United States. He preferred to knock.

He got out of the van, intending to do just that. The competing and overpowering smells of flowers and damp concrete, sweet fixative and mulch filled his nostrils as always, throwing him slightly off-balance. He heard echoing footsteps and turned to see a tall, lean figure emerge from the cold store with an armful of Dutch irises.

"Ray!" Fraser approached him gladly, then stopped dead.

"Fraser! Buddy!" The man dumped the flowers onto a tangle of florists' wire—Fraser winced at the mistreatment, knowing the lilies would bear obvious scars—and came towards him, arms outstretched.

Fraser backed up a pace, just in time to prevent the man from enveloping him in a hug. The man was clearly not Italian. He had a moderately sized nose, a graze of pale stubble on his equally pale chin and a wary look in his eye. His body all but hummed with taut energy, and he shifted restlessly under Fraser's regard. He also wore a sweet smile that confused Fraser further. 

"Who are you?" asked Fraser. He'd swear he'd never set eyes on the man before. He would have remembered.

The stranger stretched out a hand. "Quit kidding around, Fraser! It's me, Ray!" He gripped Fraser's upper arm, his fingers firm on the battered leather jacket, and dragged him towards the cold store. "Something I gotta show you."

Fraser resisted, breaking free and looking around to check his bearings. "You may well be _a_ Ray," he said, "but I'm looking for Ray Vecchio, the delivery man."

"Yeah, that's me. Come on. You gotta see this." The man didn't attempt to grab Fraser again, just beckoned urgently. Still facing Fraser, he took several steps backwards towards the cold store. 

"Ray!" Renfield Turnbull appeared in the doorway to the shop, holding up gloved hands like a doctor about to enter surgery. "Be a peach and bring me a dozen red variegated tulips, would you?"

"Yeah, Rennie. No problem," said the stranger. "Gimme a minute."

Fraser stared at each of them in turn. "Renfield, do you know this man?"

The head florist looked surprised. "Oh hello, Fraser. How are you this fine morning? Did you receive the alteration to our order? We need three bales of sphagnum, this week, not two. It's the silly season, it seems."

"Yes," said Fraser. "But do you—?"

"That's wonderful." The shop bell tinkled, and Renfield gave Fraser and the stranger a wave and spun around to attend to a customer.

Fraser turned to see the stranger standing in front of the flower tubs, scowling. "Is there a problem?"

The man murmured, "You know a tulip from a hole in the ground?"

Fraser pointed out the striped tulips and watched as the man counted out a bundle and dumped them into a bucket of water, which he took through to the shop. While he was gone, Fraser closed his eyes and reviewed the last five minutes, trying to work out what on earth was going on. He opened his eyes again when he heard the man's booted footsteps.

The stranger came right up to him—so close that despite the pervasive smell of plant life in the Emporium, Fraser could detect a smooth spicy aftershave—and said, "Trust me." 

He said it with such conviction that Fraser couldn't help but obey. He met the man's steady gaze and nodded, then followed him towards the back of the room. 

They were two paces from the cold store when Francesca's voice rang out behind them. "Ray," she called, her high heels clanging on the metal steps that led up to her office. "We got four major deliveries that need to go out _now_. Sammie Miawanie's on the line saying if Ruby Tait's funeral is a disaster, he's gonna blame _me_. So get a move on. We can't afford that kind of push."

"Press, Frannie," called Ray. "That kind of press. I'm onto it. In just a moment. I gotta talk to Fraser first."

"Press, push, shove, squeeze. What _ever_ ," Francesca muttered to herself. "Hey, Fraser!" She leaned over the railing, displaying her cleavage to impressive effect. "I hear the Musical Mounties are coming to town."

"Good morning, Francesca," Fraser replied, embarrassed at the array of soft flesh above him. "I—I take it you mean the Musical Ride? It's an extraordinary sight, very stirring and well worth the time." He paused, reconsidering his reckless use of the word 'stirring', and retreated hastily in the wake of the so-called Ray.

The stranger shut the cold store door behind them and opened his mouth to speak, but Fraser forestalled him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to be rude, but I rarely forget a face and, although you may claim to be Ray Vecchio, and despite the fact that everyone else here appears to accept that claim, I have been friends with Ray Vecchio for a number of months now, and I am very confident that you and I have never met."

"No kidding." The man grinned at him conspiratorially, then grew sober. "Listen, it's like this. I'm a cop. Vecchio witnessed a mob hit last night. The FBI've got him holed up somewhere safe—"

Fraser frowned, shocked. "Is he all right? Can I see him?"

The stranger seemed surprised at the question. He quirked his eyebrow and said, "Yeah, he's fine. But we gotta keep him under wraps until he testifies. No visitors—too risky."

Fraser nodded. "I understand. But why are you—?"

"He knew one of the guys." The man shrugged one shoulder, looking suddenly older. "If word gets out he's missing, it could cause all kinds of trouble. And if the mob finds out he's squealing, well, they might go after his family to keep him quiet." The man ran his hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at strange angles. "We need you to play along, okay? Business as usual. Pretend I'm Vecchio."

"That's an unusual precaution to take, isn't it?" Fraser studied the man curiously. 

"Yeah, well, it turns out my Lieutenant, Welsh, is an old friend of the Vecchio family, so we're going the extra mile on this one." He tilted his head. "It's just for a couple of days, a week tops."

Fraser considered the implications of this for a moment, then agreed. "All right. You should know that you and I traditionally meet for dinner and a movie on Wednesday nights."

"Nah, we don't gotta—" The man broke off and looked at Fraser, his eyes widening. "You guys are just friends, right? I mean, I know it's none of my business, but you're not—"

Fraser felt heat rise in his cheeks, despite his best efforts. Was he so transparent? "We're friends," he said shortly. This man didn't need to know about his and Ray's abortive foray into romance or the long months of strained conversations that had followed. Sufficient for him to be aware that they were on good terms, and that was true now, after all.

The man was watching him closely. He clapped a hand on Fraser's shoulder. "Okay then. Cool. I'll see you tonight. Seven o'clock."

"Seven-thirty," corrected Fraser. "At Ratatouille on North Broadway." He hesitated. "Ah, one more thing."

"What is it, Fraser? I gotta get going." The man folded his arms, and Fraser guessed that the low temperatures of the store room were starting to get to him.

Fraser surprised himself by stepping closer, into the man's personal space. He craned his head forward and said, in a calm undertone, "Who are you?"

The man jerked back as though he'd tripped, but his voice was light. "When I'm not being Vecchio?" he said. "Ray Kowalski, Chicago PD. Detective."

Fraser held out a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ray Kowalski." They shook hands as though they were making a deal.


	2. There's blood on these lilies

Fraser helped Ray Kowalski to load the company van with Renfield's delicate arrangements, and while Fraser unloaded bales of moss and stashed them away, he observed as the detective collected the delivery sheet and the invoice book from Francesca.

Ray was in the cab with the engine running and about to drive out on his run by the time Fraser decided he had to intervene. He ran up to the driver's door and knocked on the window.

"Yeah?" Ray rolled down the window and looked at him impatiently through the gap.

"It occurs to me that Francesca's regular clients will notice—well, they'll be aware that you've undergone something of a visual transformation, and this could lead to speculative gossip, which in turn could endanger the Vecchio family," said Fraser without preamble.

Ray took a moment to register this, then frowned. "Any ideas?"

Fraser nodded. "I could accompany you."

There was a pause, long enough for him to feel that he'd overstepped the mark. "You ever done that before?"

"Ah, no." Fraser flushed slightly. He was being a busybody, a tendency he'd been trying to curb of late. Diefenbaker would no doubt have something to say on the matter.

Ray looked at him bemusedly and shook his head. "Okay. Hop in." As they roared out of the driveway, he added, "You sure you got time for this?"

"Oh, certainly. My assistant, Lenny, has the business well in hand." Fraser perused the clipboard to see what would be the first stop. "And, you know, while it's true enough that I'm not familiar with Francesca's clientele, that does provide the advantage that neither are they familiar with me."

Ray Kowalski flashed him a smile. "Yeah, I got that. You and Vecchio are pretty tight, huh?"

"He's a good friend." Fraser didn't add that Ray Vecchio was pretty much his only friend since he'd moved to Chicago. Especially since Mrs. Nijinski had passed on and left him her sphagnum moss business.

"How'd you get into moss, anyway?" Ray asked. The inquiry seem like casual chitchat, but Fraser suspected that as a detective, the man was always gathering information on those around him.

Fraser hesitated, then shrugged inwardly. What harm could it do to disclose his personal situation? If he'd had bad luck with acquaintances in the past, that was no reason to armor himself against new friends forever. And this unexpected man, with his quicksilver charm, was a police officer. "It was my wolf Diefenbaker's idea—he's always been interested in horticulture." Fraser looked out the window at the hard, dirty city streets, and added thoughtlessly, "I'd intended to join the Royal Canadian Mounted Police as soon as I was old enough, but I lost my left foot to a bear trap when I was fifteen." 

"Jeez." Ray whistled through his teeth and shot him a sympathetic glance.

Fraser waved it aside. "It's not important. As you can imagine, I adjusted years ago, and the prosthetic is completely serviceable. However, it did put something of a stick in my spokes. You see, you would think that in an environment such as the North West Territories where it's so cold you usually can't feel your feet that it wouldn't matter, but—" He glanced at Ray, then finished quietly. "—actually, it turns out that when things get slippery it's doubly important to be sure of your footing."

Ray nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. "I know the feeling," he muttered, then waved his bare left hand at Fraser. "Divorced." Ah, now that he'd mentioned it, there was a pale band of skin on his ring finger as though a wedding ring had been only recently removed.

"I'm sorry to hear that." If the revelation seemed a non sequitur to Fraser, well, perhaps the implication was that they both felt as though they were missing a limb—one figuratively and the other literally. Given the years that had passed since Fraser's loss, the comparison seemed reasonable, and Fraser enjoyed a glow of fellow feeling as he settled back into his seat.

They made the rounds of office buildings, hotels and funeral parlors. Ray checked off each stop on the delivery sheet and Fraser carried fresh arrangements into the various businesses, introduced himself to the receptionists and collected the old, wilting flowers in their sturdy ceramic vases. The van gradually acquired the too-sweet scent of ageing plant matter, and the tired discards started to outnumber those yet to be delivered.

Their third to last stop was a local restaurant, _La Papere di Gomma_ , across from the park. Ray pulled into the service entrance in the alley behind the restaurant, and Fraser hoisted the tray of twenty or so table centerpieces through the open double doors and set them on a deep freeze in an alcove by the kitchen.

"Can I help you?" asked a slim, dark woman, neatly side-stepping the kitchen hands who were preparing vegetables with a deafening clatter. Her sleeves were rolled up in a businesslike fashion. 

"I'm helping Ray deliver the flowers from Francesca's Floral Emporium," said Fraser truthfully. He introduced himself and held out his hand.

"Elaine Besbriss, manager," said the woman, smiling up at him. "You can bring them through to the dining room."

Fraser picked up the unwieldy tray and followed her into the lounge where rich damask tablecloths gave the place an air of luxury. An identical tray of worn centerpieces was waiting to be removed, and Fraser carried it out to the van. 

"Seems kinda unfair you're doing all the heavy lifting," said Ray, eyeing the tray of discards. "Maybe I'll have to come haul some moss bales to return the favor."

"It's no trouble," Fraser assured him. In fact, the morning had been unexpectedly enjoyable, given the mundane nature of their task. He gathered up the two larger arrangements which would decorate the bar in the restaurant, took them inside and swapped them for the arum lilies that had been there before. It wasn't until he was sliding the bulky vases of drooping lilies into the back of the van that he noticed anything amiss. "Hmm," he said.

"Yeah?" Ray was in the driver's seat, making a note on the delivery schedule. 

Fraser looked up and met his gaze in the rear view mirror. "Ray, I believe there's blood on these lilies."

"What?" In a second, Ray was out of the van and at Fraser's side. He had a gun in his hand, and the sight of it made Fraser glance around to make sure no one could see them and no innocent parties were in danger. He reminded himself that Ray was a police officer and that this was America. A gun was hardly out of place.

"There might be any number of innocent explanations," Fraser pointed out, "but the pattern of the spray—"

"Ugh," said Ray, recoiling. "Don't say 'spray', okay? Not when you're talking about blood."

"Sorry." Fraser put his hand on Ray's back for reassurance. "As I was saying, the fact that the blood has penetrated quite deeply into the arrangement suggests a forceful, ah, spurt. Not to mention that the vase itself has sustained a chip which I suspect was caused by a .13 mm gauge bullet."

Ray blinked at him. "How'd you—?"

"I'm only guessing," Fraser said. "My grandfather was a librarian with a particular interest in forensics, so I read a lot of reference books as a child."

Ray nodded blankly and turned back to the lilies. "Blood."

Fraser bent forward and sniffed. Beneath the strong scent of lilies and the slightly fetid water was the faint iron tang of blood. "Yes."

"And a bullet hole." Ray studied the vase without touching it. "It couldn't be an old chip in the china?"

Fraser pulled on his earlobe. "Renfield would never use a damaged vase."

"Good point." Ray dug a brick out of his pocket, which turned out to be a cellular phone, and proceeded to dial. "Kowalski. I need Forensics down on Belmont, at _La Papere di_ something pronto." He listened for a moment. "I don't know! It's Italian." He shook his head, read the address off the delivery sheet and hung up. "They'll be here in ten. Listen, I'm undercover—I can't get mixed up in an investigation while I'm being Vecchio, so we're gonna have to hand it over to someone else, okay?"

"Understood." Fraser looked at the spatter of blood on the lilies and then turned away. This wasn't his field. The police would take care of it.


	3. Perhaps the slime mold story was an error of judgment

Fraser and Dief arrived at Ratatouille a little before seven-thirty to find Ray already seated in a booth near the back. He was wearing a gray sweater and thick black-framed glasses that made him seem younger and endearingly gauche. His jacket and a green knitted scarf were bundled on the seat beside him.

Fraser slid into the red vinyl booth and looked across the tabletop, reminding himself that this was part of Ray's cover. There was no reason to feel self-conscious. "Good evening."

"Hey, buddy." Ray raised his eyes from the menu, then glanced sideways at Dief. "This is the wolf, huh?"

Dief sniffed his thigh in greeting, and Ray pushed his head away. 

"Hey, we just met," he said, in mock indignation. "Thighs are off-limits till the second date, okay?"

Fraser blushed. "Diefenbaker's manners leave much to be desired," he said, shooting the culprit a frown. "Not aided by the fact that he's deaf. He does read lips, however. You just have to enunciate clearly." He waved to Margarita behind the counter in an effort to distract them all, before he realized perhaps it would be best not to draw attention to Ray who was not the Ray he was supposed to be.

Margarita nodded to them, finished serving a customer and brought over a water bowl for Dief. "Benton Fraser—must be Wednesday. Who's your friend?"

"This is Ray. He's—we're, ah, working together," said Fraser, and left it at that.

Margarita shot Ray a smile. "Another day, another Ray. The moss import industry must be booming." She snapped her gum. "What'll it be?"

Ray ordered a cheeseburger, fries and a coffee, and Fraser opted for the classic pot roast and a chocolate milkshake for himself, and spaghetti and meatballs for Dief. Margarita wrote down their order, patted Dief and headed through to the kitchen.

It wasn't until they were alone that Ray folded his arms on the table and hunched forward. "They got a match on the blood from the flowers. You'll never guess."

Fraser raised his eyebrows and turned his mind to serious matters.

"It came from the victim of the mob hit Vecchio witnessed." Ray emptied a packet of sugar onto the table and used the sharp edge of the empty paper sachet to arrange the crystals into a spiral pattern.

"That's quite a coincidence," said Fraser, watching him herd the sugar crystals into line.

"Yeah, and that's not all." Ray blinked a couple of times, then cocked his head and studied Fraser. "I got a hunch I can trust you. Am I right?"

"Yes." Fraser met his gaze readily.

Ray looked back at him, his eyes bright and shrewd. "That's what I figured. Okay, so I was talking to the detectives on the mob hit case—a couple of guys, Huey and Gardino, 'cause it turns out the Chicago PD's handling it, not the Feebs. Apparently we got some kind of taskforce now. Anyhow, Huey says they just got the autopsy report back and the victim only had one ball."

"One—?"

"You know." Ray waved his hand towards his lap. "Ball. So for a second there, I'm thinking this is a freaky mob torture scenario, you know? Only Huey says no. Says it's an old injury. And that reminds me of this guy I was at the Academy with, Andreas Volpe."

"Did he—Was he similarly, ah, short-changed?"

"Not back then," said Ray, and stopped.

Margarita delivered the coffee and the milkshake to their table. "Food's on its way, boys."

"Thank you kindly," said Fraser. "You know, Ray, it can get very cold in Canada, and extremities are often insufficiently protected against the challenge of the northern winter. I once knew a man who lost the crotch of his pants on a barbed-wired fence and—" He trailed off as Margarita walked away. "You were saying."

There was a glint of humor in Ray's eyes, but he stabbed the tabletop with his finger in all seriousness. "Volpe lost a ball in a drug bust in 1992 and retired. Mostly because he couldn't take the ribbing, you know? There were a lot of jokes pinging around that just weren't funny. But, so Huey tells me this, and I think—how many guys can there be in Chicago with only one ball? It can't be that common, right?"

"As you say." Fraser took a mouthful of his milkshake.

"So I get myself an invitation to the dead meat party and ID the body, and it's him. It's Volpe. Cold on a slab, couple of bullet holes in his head." Ray pursed his lips and looked somber for a moment. "Damned shame. He was a good cop back in the day. A good guy."

"A good guy who may have been keeping rather dubious company," Fraser pointed out.

"Yeah, I know. Turns out he was working for Zuko, the sleazebag who runs the rackets around here. That guy is bad news." Ray stared at the pattern of sugar grains for a moment, then heaped them into a small conical mound. "Anyway, that's all the dirt I've got, and like I said before, I can't investigate without blowing my cover, so—" He shrugged. "What's the deal with you, Benton Fraser?"

"There's very little to tell," said Fraser. "I work with moss."

Ray still appeared to be busy arranging the sugar. "But you're from Canada, right? How long you been here? What made you wing your way south?"

"I first came to Chicago six months ago on the trail of a formula for a revolutionary new weed killer," Fraser told him.

"Did you find it?" Ray glanced up and his hands paused in their task.

"Yes." Fraser saw no need to mention that the organic weed killer had saved the livelihoods of several remote northern settlements that had been suffering infestations of quickly spreading noxious plants. "And through a series of events that, well, they don't need exploring at this juncture, I inherited a sphagnum moss import business, and so I've remained."

"This juncture," repeated Ray, evidently amused by Fraser's turn of phrase. "So, what do you think of our fair city? You like it here?" He raised his eyes to Fraser's face and his gaze sharpened. "This your kinda razzmatazz?"

"It's certainly full of life." Fraser was grateful that Margarita chose that moment to serve their food. The fact of the matter was that he found Chicago loud, smelly and unpleasant, and the only reasons he was still here were to keep an eye on his young assistant Lenny, to ensure that Mrs. Nijinkski's legacy didn't go to waste and because he hadn't yet decided where to go next. To admit any of that would only invite pity. Fraser changed the subject. "Have you always lived here?"

"Yeah, born and bred," said Ray. He picked up his burger in both hands. "They got a lot of guys like you in the Great White North?"

Fraser felt his eyes widen and busied himself with his pot roast. "How do you mean?"

Ray's lips pushed forward for a moment like he knew exactly what Fraser was thinking, but then he looked down at his food. "You know—smart, good looking, polite, with a pet wolf."

Fraser spared a glance for Dief, who was chomping on meatballs like there was no tomorrow. "He's not a pet," he said. "He's a free agent. I count myself lucky he chooses to stay with me."

"Freaks," said Ray, as if completing his description of guys like Fraser, but he seemed to mean it kindly. Perhaps even affectionately.

"I was raised by traveling librarians," Fraser explained. "My grandparents. So, yes, you're correct. I am a freak by most people's standards. My father—" He hesitated, surprised to find himself confiding in the man, but Ray showed every sign of interest, so he let the words flow. "My father was a Mountie, and as such, he spent a lot of time away from home. I'd always intended to follow in his footsteps. When my injury prevented me—"

"Your foot," said Ray.

"Yeah. The RCMP could only offer me deskwork and, well—"

Ray nodded. "You don't seem like the paper pusher type."

Fraser almost said thank you. Instead he continued. "Then my father and I had even less in common, and in many ways it was easier to pretend otherwise if I lived elsewhere, so I relocated to the Yukon."

"I get that," said Ray, speaking with his mouth full. "My dad and me, same deal, except for how that was because I did become a cop. He and Mom moved to Arizona."

"Right. I'm sorry to hear that." Fraser poked his pot roast with his fork, feeling as warm with empathy as with good food. "Anyway, that's in my past now. My father was killed two years ago."

Ray winced sympathetically. "Ouch."

Fraser instantly felt self-conscious. "I beg your pardon. I'm not in the habit of burdening others with my troubles."

"No, no, no, I didn't mean it like that." Ray reached across and touched the back of his hand briefly. "I just. That must've sucked."

Fraser watched Ray's hand retreat and absent-mindedly wiped off the smear of ketchup he'd left behind. "It did. His partner, Buck Frobisher, found the culprits and brought them to justice at considerable cost to himself. He was transferred to the Canadian Consulate in Cincinnati, I believe."

"Wait." Ray held up his half-eaten burger for emphasis. "He caught the bad guy and they exiled him to Ohio? What is that, some kind of backwards frozen-brain Canadian thing? What did the crook get—a weekend at Disneyland?"

"He went to jail," said Fraser, and added reluctantly, "It was complicated because Frobisher uncovered corruption on the Force." On the one hand, it was comforting to meet someone who shared his incredulity at Frobisher's treatment; on the other, the situation didn't exactly paint a glowing picture of his country.

"Your dad was killed by another Mountie?" Ray's expression softened with understanding behind his glasses. His burger, held one-handed, dripped juices onto his plate. 

"Indirectly." Fraser was suddenly painfully embarrassed. He hadn't meant to solicit sympathy, and his grandmother would be ashamed of his manners. He swiped his tongue across his lip, hoping he hadn't already done too much damage to this budding friendship, and changed the subject. "Did you know, Ray, that a slime mold is a single-celled organism that normally creeps through liquid films on the forest floor? It engulfs bacteria and divides again and again, every three or four hours."

Ray seemed dumbstruck, yet oddly fascinated by this intelligence.

Fraser persevered. "But when threatened with starvation, a randomly speckled field of the individual amoebae, all more or less equally spaced out, stream in towards a central point, where they form a communal slug, known as a grex," he continued. "There might be forty thousand separate cells in such a colony and yet they're capable of behaving as though they were a single organism. 

"What's interesting is that when a grex is stained with a harmless dye and its front end grafted onto the back of an unstained slug, within minutes the stained 'head' cells move rapidly up the mixed slug, sweeping through its fabric like a band of color until they're able once again to reach their proper place in the lead."

Ray had leaned back in his seat. He was scratching his neck and looking pained. "Uh, what is the point of that story?"

"It's just a mold anecdote." Fraser crumpled his napkin, dropped it on his dinner plate and considered further. "Well, it's also an allegory for Fate."

Ray blinked myopically for a moment, then pointed at him, catching on. "Everyone ends up back where they belong, huh? You believe in Fate and all that—soulmates, destinies, karma?"

"I believe in choice and the power to do good," said Fraser evasively. 

"Yeah, I bet you do. Me, I believe in kablooie." Ray stuffed the last bite of his burger into his mouth and said, "Fifteen years of soulmates and then it's out on the street. _So long, Ray! Thanks for the heartache!_ "

"It must have been hard." Fraser pushed his plate away, folded his arms on the table and leaned in, more than willing to take his turn providing a listening ear.

Ray sighed. "You have no idea." He tapped his fingertips on the edge of his plate for a moment, apparently lost in thought, and then he slapped his hands flat on the table. "Listen, I know you and, uh—I know we usually see a movie, but I got some things to take care of, okay?" He licked his teeth, and his gaze flicked to Fraser and away again. 

Fraser eyed him, thrown by the abrupt conclusion to what had seemed a companionable conversation. "Of course."

Ray dropped some bills on the table and gathered his things. "I'll, uh, see you tomorrow at Frannie's?"

"Of course," repeated Fraser and watched him leave. "Not everyone wishes to make new friends," he told Dief, who'd finished his meatballs and was waiting for them to depart to the movie theater. "Perhaps the slime mold story was an error of judgment."

Dief yawned ostentatiously and suggested it wasn't the grex that had thrown Ray off his stride.

"When I licked my lip?" Fraser licked it again reflexively and stared at Dief in bafflement. "You're imagining things, I'm sure."

Dief sighed and nudged him. If they didn't get a move on, they'd miss the nine o'clock showing.


	4. Bad guys are like vegetables

Fraser accompanied Ray on his delivery rounds the next day, and just like the day before, Ray gave every appearance of friendliness. Fraser couldn't help noticing a subtle reserve, though, and their conversation remained on neutral, impersonal terrain—sports, cars and speculative gossip about Frannie's clients. 

When Ray turned onto Belmont, Fraser said, "If it's not too much trouble, I'd like to drop in on _La Papere_ and make sure Miss Besbriss hasn't been overly inconvenienced by the investigation. I feel somewhat responsible."

Ray slanted a glance at him. "Miss Besbriss, huh?" Something eased in the set of his shoulders. "Sure, sure. I wouldn't mind taking a look around myself. I gotta say, I'm itching to know what Andreas got himself mixed up in, and between you, me and the chrysanthemums, Huey and Gardino couldn't find a hole in the wall if you stuck up a sign that said _Hole This Way_ with an arrow."

They parked in the service entrance but the doors were blocked with yellow crime scene tape, so Ray locked the van and they went around front. Elaine Besbriss was standing outside the similarly taped-up front entrance of _La Papere_ , having a heated debate with a uniformed officer. 

"What do you mean, I can't open?" she said, throwing up her hands. "I've got bookings from months back! I can't just call up fifteen parties of Chicago's most respected families, not to mention the food critic for the Trib and tell them I'm closed! That the cops think someone got murdered here just because some idiot spotted blood on some stupid flowers. It was probably a nose bleed! It happens all the time."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," said the uniform, his hands on his hips. "You'll have to take it up with the Lieutenant."

Elaine growled. "There's no time! I need my kitchen staff in the kitchen two hours ago!"

"Is there anything we can do to be of service?" asked Fraser, intervening before Elaine resorted to assault.

Elaine blinked at him for a moment. "Flower shop guy?"

"That's right. I'm Benton Fraser, and this is Ray." Fraser held out his hand, and she shook it briefly. "I'm afraid this is partly my fault. You see, I was the idiot who noticed the blood on the flowers."

"You!" She seemed torn between fury and frustration. "Can you get the police to let me open my restaurant? Because otherwise I don't know how in hell you can help."

"I'm afraid we can't do that, ma'am, but perhaps we can help speed up the investigation." He turned to the uniformed officer. "May we look around?"

"Sorry, buddy, it's a major crime scene." He looked Fraser up and down. "No flower shop guys. Cops only."

Ray pulled the officer aside and had a quick word out of hearing, no doubt revealing his true identity. When they came back, the officer was still looking doubtful but he let them in. "Ten minutes," he said sternly. "Don't touch anything."

"Thank you kindly," said Fraser, and motioned for Elaine and Ray to precede him. 

"Hey, no, not you, lady!" The officer stopped Elaine before she could cross the threshold. "Just the, uh, flower shop guys."

"That's it!" Elaine folded her arms and fumed at him. "I want your name and badge number, and I want them now. I'm making a complaint."

Fraser ducked under the yellow tape and hurried inside while they were distracted, before the officer decided not to allow them entry after all.

The dining lounge was dark, chairs crammed under their tables. There were chalk circles drawn on the carpet near the bar, and a chunk of plaster missing from the wall where forensics had obviously found the bullet.

Fraser went over and examined the area, keeping his hands well clear of any potential evidence. Ray, meanwhile, was leafing through the bookings to see who had dined at the restaurant two nights earlier.

Fraser saw a faint scatter of powder on the carpet under the bar and crouched down to take a closer look. He'd assumed it was dust from the damaged wall, but in fact the grains were larger and yellow. He dabbed at it with his finger and brought a few grains to his nose to sniff them.

"What you got there?" Ray was peering over his shoulder.

"Pollen from the lilies." Fraser brushed the golden powder from his hands and stood up again.

"No news there," said Ray. "No news is good news, except when you're a cop investigating a murder scene."

"Indeed." Fraser looked around. There were a few more grains of pollen scattered on the carpet near the rear exit. No, not an exit. The men's room. He narrowed his eyes and followed the trail, and Ray followed him. 

"It's a bathroom," said Ray. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stopped to adjust his hair, then caught Fraser's eye and dropped his hands abruptly. "Uh, do you know what we're looking for?" 

"Not yet," said Fraser. The barely perceptible pollen trail led into one of the stalls. Fraser went in and Ray crowded after him. 

"Oh. Were you gonna—?" Ray tried to back out, but the door had already shut behind him, and there was hardly room for the two of them to stand, let alone open it again. "I didn't mean to—" His neck turned pink. "—um, you know. I'm not."

But Fraser was both intent on his task and at a loss for what to say, so he ignored him and scanned the area. Then he stepped onto the rim of the toilet, reached up and removed the ceiling panel above them. There was a small shower of white dust—not pollen this time.

"It's not that I never thought about it," Ray was rambling, "but, you know, I was married for fifteen years, and I never cheated once. I mean, Stella would've killed me if I cheated. She had a mean right hook, you should've seen her in boxing gloves. So—"

Fraser told himself he had no idea what Ray was talking about. "Ray, I believe that if you get this tested—" 

He stepped down from the toilet and lightly touched the powder that had collected on the shoulder of Ray's jacket. 

Ray started and stumbled back against the door with a thud. "What?"

"—we'll find it's benzoylmethyl ecgonine," finished Fraser gravely. "I'm sorry if I'm making you uncomfortable." He tried to give Ray as much room as he could within the confines of the stall.

Ray stared at him a moment, then shook his head hard, as if he had water in his ears. "It's not you," he said slowly. "It's me." He took a deep breath and dug his hands into his pockets. "Ignore it and it'll go away, right?"

"Perhaps," said Fraser. He wasn't entirely certain what they were discussing, but if Diefenbaker were correct, Fraser didn't know that he wanted it to go away. However, Ray was apparently unwilling to entertain the notion, so it going away was probably for the best.

He didn't look unwilling. His adam's apple jerked as he swallowed. "Benzo-what?" he said faintly.

Fraser gathered his wits. This was hardly the time or place. "Cocaine," he explained.

" _Cocaine?_ " said Ray, sounding suddenly outraged. "We walk into a murder scene after forensics has fine-tooth-combed the place and three seconds later you're discovering drugs in the air conditioning? What are you, a human sniffer dog?"

"I do have a finely tuned sense of smell," Fraser admitted, "but it was really just deductive reasoning."

Ray closed one eye and glared at him. "Hey, out of the two of us, I'm the one holding the badge. How'd you figure it out?"

"Well, I know a lot about moss and lichen, so it's easy to extrapolate—" Fraser felt ridiculously guilty.

Ray raised his eyes to the ceiling. "You're saying bad guys are like vegetables?" 

"In some ways, yes." Fraser stood in the meager gap between the toilet and the wall of the stall, to give Ray room to get the door open. "Whoever replaced the panel rotated it ninety degrees. The pattern was misaligned with the rest of the ceiling."

Ray sighed. "And now you've put your mitts all over it and smudged the prints."

"Most likely," Fraser agreed. That had been foolish. In his haste to discover something—to show off to Ray, if he were honest with himself—he'd compromised the investigation. "I'm sorry."

Ray waved that away and pulled out his cell phone. "More evidence is more evidence. I gotta call Huey." He moved out of the stall and leaned against the wall as he explained the developments at length. When he hung up, he pulled a face. "Get this," he said. "They found traces of cocaine under Volpe's fingernails. Guess he wasn't such a good guy after all."


	5. A nice girl with a philosophical objection

They left Elaine still arguing with the police officer outside _La Papere_ and finished the delivery rounds, with Ray filling Fraser in on all the details he had on the case so far. "Huey and Gardino are going after Warfield—he's Zuko's main competitor. They got a tip-off that Warfield stole a shipment of coke from Zuko. I guess Volpe got caught in the crossfire."

Fraser considered this. "Who gave the tip-off?"

"Huey said they got a call. A snitch?" Ray turned left to head back to the flower shop. 

Fraser forestalled him. "If you don't mind, I'd like to drop in on a friend. May West. We'll find her in the park."

"Okey-dokey." Ray pulled a U-turn with a squeal of tires. "May West. What kind of name is that?"

"It's her stage name," said Fraser. "Her real name is June West. She's a performance arborist—" He scratched his eyebrow. "Well, technically she's a topiarist, but she has philosophical objections to that designation."

Ray glanced at him. "Like what?"

"That's not important," said Fraser. "What's important is that she frequents the corner of the park across from _La Papere_ , and she may well have seen something out of the ordinary."

Ray shrugged easily. "Nice day for a walk in the park." He pulled into a parking space and got out of the van. "Shame we didn't bring the wolf."

"Yeah." It was indeed a beautiful day, sunny and crisp. Mothers walked the paths in groups with their strollers, and children were shrieking happily in the playground on the other side of the trees. The thought of coming here socially with Ray and Dief sounded so appealing that Fraser allowed himself a moment to pretend they were a couple, that Ray was speaking of a family outing, one that might be repeated many times. He glanced across and Ray smiled as if he were thinking the same thing. 

Then he seemed to catch himself. He pulled his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and slid them on. "Don't have much time for goofing off, usually," he said off-handedly. "It's a change."

"Understood," said Fraser, and schooled himself to rein in his flight of fancy. Ray wanted to keep Fraser at a distance, and Fraser would respect that. After all, Ray might be a remarkably attractive man, but the fantasy was absurd: they barely knew each other.

He spied June near the fountain, trimming a common box into the shape of a cigarette lighter. Her pruning shears glinted in the sunlight, and a small crowd of people were gathered around her, admiring her work. "Here we are," said Fraser, and they went over to talk to her.

She waved to indicate she was nearly done. 

Ray stopped and snapped his fingers. "I should've brought a picture of Volpe," he said. "I didn't think of it, 'cause I'm not on the case."

A picture was a good idea. "Do you have a pencil?" asked Fraser. 

Ray fished in his pockets and pulled out a green biro. "This do?"

"Yes." Fraser found an invoice in the back pocket of his jeans and went over to the fountain. He crouched down so he could lean on the surround and smoothed out the invoice, face down. "What did he look like?"

Ray sat beside the paper so his chinos-clad thigh was right next to Fraser's hand. He hung his head and shut his eyes—"So I can visualize better."—and gave a description of the dead man. 

Fraser listened intently, determined not to get distracted by Ray's physical presence. He asked a few questions, but Ray's description was good. Once Fraser had a clear mental image, he started to sketch, green lines spreading across the paper like new season's shoots. "Is this him?"

Ray's eyes blinked open, warm and blue and somehow closer than Fraser had realized. Mere inches separated them. Fraser could have counted Ray's eyelashes. They stared at each other for a long moment, during which the sounds of the park faded into insignificance and the sun seemed to halo Ray's hair. Fraser felt exposed, as though his weakness was laid bare for Ray to see, but he couldn't bring himself to break the spell. He could barely breathe.

Ray wet his lips. "Listen, I don't—"

He was interrupted by a cheer from the topiary spectators. They both looked around to see June hold up her arms triumphantly. The cigarette lighter was a perfect rendition. The flame curving out of the top almost seemed to flicker in the sunlight.

"Now I want a super-size cigarette," said Ray. He glanced at Fraser then back at the topiary and cleared his throat. "I mean, I quit. I just. You know. Good plant sculpture." He took the picture from Fraser. "Hey, this is great! You didn't say you were an artist. This is Volpe down to a T. Uh, except—" He plucked the pen from Fraser's hand and scribbled a narrow beard onto the picture. "He had a goatee."

Fraser nodded, bemused, and waved June over. "We're trying to find out about a man called Andreas Volpe," he told her, when they'd completed their introductions. "I wondered if you might have seen him. We think he may have dined at _La Papere_ a few nights ago."

She frowned and shook her head. "I don't think so." But then Ray showed her the picture, and her frown cleared. "Oh, I know this guy! Yeah." She picked a stray leaf out of her curly dark hair and pointed it towards the south end of the park. "He turns up every other Thursday, like clockwork, to meet his friend."

Fraser's ears pricked up. "Can you describe the friend?" 

She shrugged. "He's kind of average looking, kind of old, and your guy—Andreas, right?—he's pretty hot. I never paid much attention to the other guy." Her face brightened. "Oh, but you could ask Gary—you know? The street artist? I think he drew a picture of them playing chess."

"Chess," said Ray.

"Yeah, that's what they do. Every second Thursday." June smiled at him flirtatiously. "You play?"

"I have been known to," he said, smiling back. "How about you?"

Fraser cut in. "Like clockwork, you say? Do they have a regular time?"

June looked at her watch. "Yeah, around one-thirty. They should be turning up in about half an hour, if you want to catch them." She tucked her hair behind her ear and peeked at Ray through her eyelashes. "I'd stick around but I have to get to school."

"Hey, well, it was good to meet you." Ray shook her hand. "I'll see you 'round."

"You've been most helpful," added Fraser, but he was relieved when she hurried off to gather her gardening equipment.

"Nice girl," said Ray, looking after her.

Fraser said something noncommittal and spent the walk to find Gary the cartoonist silently scolding himself. From what he could tell, Ray was both straight and recovering from a difficult divorce. That he might also be attracted to Fraser was neither here nor there, if he was uncomfortable with the idea of acting on it. As Ray himself had said, they should ignore it until it went away.

And if Fraser found himself aligning to Ray like a compass needle seeking north, well, no doubt that would pass too. It was likely just the novelty of having someone new to talk to, of learning new expressions and the warmth of a new smile. Or maybe it was even simply a mirror of Ray's attraction. Either way, Fraser didn't have so many acquaintances that he could afford to risk alienating new ones by imposing on them unwelcome hopes. Doing so had nearly cost him his friendship with Ray Vecchio, and he wouldn't risk the delicate filigree of his association with this new Ray.

Ray could set the parameters. Fraser would accept them with good grace.


	6. Don't let me do anything stupid

Gary was an elderly wispy-haired man with reddened arthritic fingers, wearing a tattered leather bomber jacket, but he had piercing brown eyes, a ready smile and a collection of caricatures and straight portraits clipped to a big board, priced from five to fifty dollars. 

Ray went over and scanned the pictures. "This is him! That's Volpe," he said, unclipping a bright pastel cartoon of two men hunched over one of the park's chess tables. 

Fraser looked over his shoulder. Volpe was recognizable from the description Ray had given. The other man was heavyset and bulldoggish, with short ginger hair. The brilliant blue sky between the two figures was crowded with obscene chess pieces and jagged angry symbols.

"What is that? I don't get that." Ray turned as he asked, and his shoulder brushed Fraser's chest. "It's raining pawns? What."

Fraser stepped away and scratched his eyebrow. "It's figurative," he said. "They were arguing."

"Oh." Ray squinted at the paper. "I can see that, sorta." He waved it at Gary. "When did you draw this?"

"Thursday two weeks ago. No one seems to like it," said Gary, with a thick New York accent. "Those guys turn up every other week."

Ray and Fraser exchanged glances. This was their man. 

"How much?" asked Ray, and haggled Gary down from sixty to forty-five, which he then paid philosophically. He went to hand over his card too, then stopped, seeming to remember in the nick of time that he was undercover. "Uh, listen." He tore a strip off the bottom of Fraser's green-biro sketch and scribbled his number on it. "You see either of these guys, you call me, okay?"

"You stalking them or what?" asked Gary, eyeing him suspiciously. "People got a right to hang out in the park without getting harassed, man."

"Yeah, I know. But this guy owes me money," Ray improvised, "and I need it back. My little girl, she's sick."

Fraser raised his eyebrows, and Ray shrugged apologetically while Gary tucked the money and the phone number into his wallet. "You want to see these guys, you should make for the chess area now. They always meet up Thursday afternoons."

"Thank you kindly," said Fraser. 

"Yeah, thanks." Ray folded the caricature in half and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, making Gary wince and throw up his hands at the mistreatment of his art. Ray and Fraser set off along the path between rows of purple rhododendrons. "So, this guy. Who is this guy?"

"He could just be a friend," Fraser pointed out.

Ray pulled the picture out and waved it at him. "Does this look friendly to you? These guys are two seconds away from popping each other's lights out."

"Most friendships have their difficult patches."

"He's not a friend," said Ray definitively. He tapped his finger against the stiff cartridge paper. "I got a feeling about this. Maybe he was a contact from Warfield's guys. Maybe Volpe was playing both sides of the fence. Warfield gets Volpe to snatch the dope from Zuko, Zuko finds out and puts a cap in him."

Fraser considered this scenario. "We have no evidence Volpe was connected with Mr. Warfield."

"That's why we're here, Fraser." Ray tucked the picture back in his pocket. "That's why we're here."

The chess area was almost deserted. There were two teenage girls in school uniform using one of the tables to study. They had books spread out between them, and a tape deck on the ground that blared music consisting entirely of _Baby, baby, I love you_ and electronic twiddling. Only one table was being used to play chess, and it was occupied by a mother and her teenage son.

It was twenty-five past. Fraser borrowed a spare set of chess pieces from the players, and he and Ray settled in to wait. 

Ray opened with the Ruy Lopez, and Fraser was quickly pulled into the game. He hadn't played since his grandmother passed away, and Ray was an able opponent, keeping Fraser on his toes. Between turns, they kept an eye out for Volpe's associate, but there was no sign of the man.

Ray was engrossed in the game, his brow furrowed with concentration, and Fraser took the opportunity to study him. He'd donned his glasses and was in need of a shave. The lines that bracketed his mouth deepened whenever he saw an opening—Fraser expected he'd be an easy mark at poker. His lips were full and—

Ray glanced up, and Fraser blinked and fought the urge to apologize. Better for all concerned if he play dumb.

"Your turn." Ray sounded breathless, aware. "And still no sign of Volpe's guy."

"Right," agreed Fraser. "He's fifteen minutes late. Perhaps he's not coming."

Ray lined up the chess pieces he'd taken and flicked over a pawn with the tip of his finger. "Maybe he knows Volpe got whacked."

"Has the murder been publicized?" Fraser made a point of keeping up with the news, but he might well have missed the story in the rush of the last day or so.

"Nah, we're keeping it on the down-low. Better for Vecchio that way, 'cause then Zuko won't know he squealed."

"But no arrests have been made?" Fraser frowned. Surely if they had Ray Vecchio's eye witness account, the case was solid.

"A couple of goons. Zuko's gone to ground—Huey and Gardino are still smoking him out."

"I see." Fraser took Ray's knight with a rook and licked his lip thoughtfully as he surveyed the remaining pieces.

Ray made an inarticulate noise and stood up. "Listen, I don't think this guy's gonna show, and I gotta call in all this new info to the Lieu, not to mention getting back to Frannie's empirical flower boutique."

They were mid-game, but Fraser supposed chess was unimportant in the wider scheme of things. "All right." He stood up, too. "Is there any way I can get a message to Ray Vecchio?"

"No," said Ray. "Not officially. Why?"

Fraser followed him back along the path towards the van. "He may have seen something."

"Jack and Louis took a full statement. You want me to grab a copy?"

Fraser smiled his thanks. It was gratifying to be treated as an equal member of the investigation, even if he had no standing and their inquiries were by necessity informal. "It's not unusual for eye witnesses to see crucial evidence without realizing its significance. If I could talk to him, perhaps—"

"Too risky," said Ray. "Even if we knew where he was—which I'm not saying I couldn't find out, because I've got my ways and means—but even if we did, all it takes is for someone to follow us and he's up in smoke. You know what I mean?"

"Of course." Fraser ducked his head and tried not to worry. His friend might theoretically be in danger but he was in a police safe house, and the only thing Fraser could do to help right now was to get to the bottom of the mystery.

"There is something you could do," said Ray hesitantly, as if he'd read Fraser's thoughts.

"Anything," said Fraser promptly.

Ray stopped in the middle of the path and turned to him, looking uncomfortable. A middle-aged couple approached, hand in hand, and Ray stepped closer to give them room to pass. "It's like this. The Lieu's got me staying at the Vecchios'. It's good for the cover and it gives them some protection. You know, if Zuko can't find Vecchio, he might go after his family."

Fraser nodded.

"Only their place is kind of a zoo house, you know?" Ray gave a rueful smile. "I was just getting used to it being just me, and now there's makeup and stockings and perfume in the bathroom and people yelling over the breakfast table. It's like the last three years of my marriage squashed up into twenty-four hours of crazy. So, I just—" He stopped and let his hands fall to his sides. "You, uh, you want to come over for dinner?"

"I'd be happy to." Fraser was well aware of the habitual chaos of the Vecchio household. Sharing the burden seemed the least he could do under the circumstances. And the invitation itself was sparking a surge of hope. 

"Thanks." Ray's smile widened, and then he looked away and scratched his neck. "You're a good guy, Fraser. Don't—" He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Don't let me do anything stupid, okay?"

That was open to a multitude of interpretations, but Fraser held back. The connection between them was warm and open, and hope was a small but persistent flame, burning bright in his chest. However ill-founded it might be, he couldn't bring himself to snuff it out with clarification of rejection. Not just yet.


	7. So you're gay—big deal! You still have to eat!

Fraser spent the rest of the day seeing to administrative tasks for his moss import business and taking Dief for a run. Then he sent Lenny home early and cleaned himself up, and he and Dief drove to Francesca's Emporium where he'd arranged to meet Ray so they could travel to the Vecchios' together.

Ray's eyes widened when he saw Fraser, but all he said was, "Uh, nice hat."

"Thanks." Fraser took it off and brandished it self-consciously. "It was my father's." In fact, Fraser rarely wore the Stetson, since it tended to invite attention he preferred to avoid, but it had seemed somehow necessary this evening, a piece of armor that might protect him from Francesca's advances and, perhaps, Ray's lack of the same. "I brought Dief along. I hope that's all right. He's rather partial to Mrs. Vecchio's lasagna."

"Fine by me. Hey, furface, how's it going?" Ray led the way to Ray Vecchio's green Buick Riviera and let Dief in the back. 

He drove them through the darkening city, the Riviera's hood strobing in sequential pools of orange from the streetlights. The sidewalks were littered with homeless people huddled in small groups and traversed by other citizens wearing heavy coats, bundled up in gloves and scarves and hats, carrying groceries or briefcases or walking their dogs. Stores and liquor outlets blazed fluorescent white in the thick gloom, and multi-colored neon flickered and buzzed. It was unremittingly artificial, and Fraser experienced a pang for the soft static haze of starlight and the mysteries of the aurora borealis.

When they were halfway to their destination, Ray cleared his throat, breaking the companionable silence. "So, uh, update," he said. "I checked in with Huey—tried to give him the picture from the park. He wouldn't take it. In fact, he ribbed me like hell for even paying for it, you know? Like because it's a cartoon, it don't mean anything. Some guys got no imagination."

Fraser rotated his father's hat on his lap, smoothing the brim with his thumb. "Have they made any progress with the case?"

Ray darted a distracted look at the Stetson. "Yeah, they have, against all odds. He and Louis tracked down a known associate of Volpe's, an old girlfriend, and got his cellphone number, so they got a warrant and pulled his phone records."

"That sounds promising." 

Ray's hands moved confidently on the wheel. In the sodium light, the pale band denoting his absent wedding ring was imperceptible. Fraser had a sudden vivid and wholly inappropriate sensation of how those hands would feel touching him intimately, those strong lean fingers wrapping around him with that same confidence. His breath caught in his throat and he looked away out the passenger window, put the image aside to think of later—much later—and concentrated on Ray's words.

"Yeah. Get this. He made a bunch of calls over the last year and a half to a particular cellphone, so Gardino sweet-talked the lady at the telephone company, which me, I do not even want to think about, and they got the name of the guy. It's Brian Kilrea. And he's not with Warfield or any of the other outfits in town. He's a cop. A respected cop—he's got a whole wall of citations."

Fraser's eyebrows flew up. "Was Volpe an informant?"

"He wasn't registered as a snitch, but you know. Sometimes that kind of thing gets—" Ray waved his hand back and forth and then used it to sound the horn emphatically at a passing car that had failed to use its turn signal. "So I ask around and Brian Kilrea fits the description of the guy in Gary's cartoon. The interesting thing is he also happens to be the guy who's in charge of Vecchio's safe house."

Fraser tightened his grip on his hat. Something was wrong here. "Have Detectives Huey and Gardino spoken to Kilrea?"

"Yeah, they called him into the station. Apparently he was overcome with shock and remorse about Volpe sprouting wings—all _alas, poor Yorrick_ and _there but for the grace of God._ And then he told Huey that Volpe was double-crossing Zuko on Warfield's behalf, vis-à-vis the coke." Ray pronounced it 'viz-a-viz', and it took Fraser a second to comprehend. He nodded, and Ray continued. "Apparently Kilrea tried to talk him out of it, told him he was in too deep, that he should abandon his life of crime and take up macramé or something, but Volpe wouldn't budge. Maybe Warfield had his, uh, ball in a vice, who knows. But that's how it was. Either Volpe slipped up or Zuko made him. Either way, Zuko had him whacked."

"So Kilrea met every two weeks with a known mob associate." Fraser frowned. "Is that normal for a police officer?"

"If Volpe was a snitch—" Ray shrugged. "Either way, he was an ex-cop, no outstanding warrants. Maybe they had history. Maybe they were buddies. It's a free country, right?"

"So they say." Fraser pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to slot the pieces into place, but before he could build a coherent picture, Ray pulled into the Vecchio's driveway. 

"Wee, wee, wee, all the way home," said Ray, and switched off the ignition.

Dief whuffed and nosed Ray's ear, and Ray jumped and pushed his head away. 

"Hey, mutt. Listen, some people have a little thing called personal space, okay? You don't go around slobbering on someone's ear without their say so." He twisted around to face Dief. "Get that?"

Fraser had turned too, to gauge Dief's reaction, and as he and Ray were straightening up, they came face to face across the gear stick and froze there. Ray's face was in shadow, the porch light catching only his ear and the curve of his cheekbone, but Fraser thought he sensed heat and tension in the black pools of Ray's eyes.

"Ray, do you—" He licked his lip and closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them, Ray hadn't moved. It was as though they were suspended in time, a fleeting escape from the everyday world, its mysteries and dangers. As though he could say anything. "Do you find me attractive?"

Ray stopped breathing. A pulse point fluttered at the side of his neck. He raised his hand as if to touch Fraser's bottom lip, but stopped before he made contact. It was thrilling and intensely frustrating. 

"Yeah," admitted Ray softly. "But—"

The assent was enough. Fraser's restraint broke and he grasped Ray's hand where it hovered between them and brought Ray's fingertips the last few inches to his lips, brushed them across the slick, sensitive skin.

Ray didn't pull away.

Emboldened, Fraser let his lips part and took Ray's fingers into his mouth, tasted the metallic tang of car keys and the artificial sweetness of liquid soap and sucked those away until he discovered beneath them skin and heat and the thrum of Ray's pulse.

Ray gasped, then groaned and tugged his hand free of Fraser's mouth, which Fraser reluctantly allowed, afraid of what would come next. Of awkwardness and apologies, regrets and recriminations. Instead there was a rustle, a blur of motion, and Ray's mouth pressed to his, Ray's tongue sliding hotly against his own. Dear Lord! 

It was no ordinary kiss. Ray explored Fraser's mouth thoroughly, awaking in Fraser a hunger that made him tremble. He clutched Ray's shoulder to draw him closer, but they were both still wearing their seat belts, and before Fraser could find the release catch, he heard footsteps approaching the car. He pulled away abruptly.

"What?" demanded Ray.

A knock on the driver's side window made him jump like a startled deer. He raked his hands hastily through his hair and wound down the window.

"I thought I heard the car," said Francesca. "When you're done sucking each other's faces off, dinner's ready." She turned and went back inside, her high-heeled shoes clipping indignantly on the path.

"Oh fuck." Ray curled forward and rested his forehead on the top of the steering wheel. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Fraser watched him, torn between worry and arousal. After a minute, worry won out and he risked a comforting hand on Ray's shoulder. "Do you want me to leave?"

"And make me face the firing squad on my own? I don't think so." He took a long deep breath and let it out noisily. "Listen, I don't know what you want from me, but Frannie told me the big secret, okay? So you'd better get in there and make it right with her."

"Secret?" asked Fraser blankly.

"How you and her are practically engaged," said Ray.

Fraser blinked. "Engaged in what?"

Even in the dim car, he could tell Ray was glaring at him. "To be married, dumbass. So stop acting all innocent." He rubbed his face. "Anyway, I was just getting used to single and divorced. You should see the look people get when you say your wife kicked you out—pity ain't pretty. I'm sure as hell not ready for divorced and queer."

"Ah." Fraser's hat had fallen to his feet during the kiss. He picked it up and dusted it off.

"Yeah, _ah_." Ray sat back and let his head fall against the headrest. "I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt and guess you didn't know about Frannie."

"Thank you," said Fraser. "She—I—Not as such."

"But that don't change the fact that, uh, being with you—it'd be too much. It's too much. I can't deal with prejudice and people being jerks, and coming out of the closet or staying in the closet or any of that hokey pokey. I am what I am, Fraser. I'm a normal guy, clinging to what's left of my normal life."

"I understand." Fraser thought his voice sounded remarkably steady, considering. And it _was_ understandable for Ray to fear the stigma of a same-sex liaison, particularly in his profession, however much Fraser might wish it were otherwise.

"Good. Okay." Ray raised his head and glanced sideways at Fraser. "So. Friends?"

"Of course." His lips were stiff, the words muffled.

"I'm sorry." The regret sounded sincere.

"It's okay," said Fraser, feeling like an automaton. "I shouldn't have pushed. It's my fault."

Dief snuffled from the backseat, but Fraser ignored him. They could talk about this later when they were alone. For now, dinner was getting cold. 

They went into the house and Ray paused in the hallway outside the dining room door and rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck from side to side. "Okay," he said under his breath. "Okay." 

He reached for the doorknob and pushed, and the rich delicious aroma of Mrs. Vecchio's cooking wafted towards them, reminding Fraser that he hadn't eaten since late morning. Then Francesca's voice rang out, "—if they're done making out in the driveway, that is."

Ray blanched, but Dief had already slipped ahead of him through the door and disappeared under the table. There was no turning back. 

"What are you talking about, making out?" said Mrs. Vecchio, who was sitting with her back to the door. "Benton's not a homosexual!"

One of Maria's children, Donna, dropped her fork on the floor with a clatter. "Mama, what's 'making out'?"

Fraser straightened his shoulders. He moved to the table and put his hands on the back of one of the empty chairs that awaited them. "I am, actually," he said. "But there must be some misunderstanding, because Ray is not."

Francesca flushed. "Misunderstanding my ankle. I know what I saw."

"No, it was a mistake," said Fraser firmly. "I'm sorry." He avoided looking at Ray.

"Yeah." Ray dropped into the seat beside him and reached for the glass of water in front of him. The tight angle of his shoulders aside, he appeared laudably calm. "Nothing to see, move it along. When did you last get your eyes tested, huh, Frannie?"

"Jeez, who do you think you are—my shrink?" Francesca took a savage bite of chicken linguini. "Sit down, Fraser! So you're gay—big deal! You still have to eat."

Mrs. Vecchio nodded and waved him to his seat. "Yes, Benton. Please sit down."

"Thank you kindly." Fraser took his place and Mrs. Vecchio served him and Ray huge portions of linguini and vegetables. For a while, the only sounds were the scraping of cutlery on plates and the hushed murmurs of the children, and then Mrs. Vecchio said triumphantly, "Antonia DiMinuzzi!"

She looked expectantly at Fraser, and he tugged on his ear. "Ah, I don't think I know—"

"Her son Carlos is gay," said Mrs. Vecchio. "I'll introduce you. Come for dinner next week."

"Don't forget Joe Capella," said Maria, looking up from an exchange with Donna.

Mrs. Vecchio's eyes lit up. "Joe Capella is gay? Perfect!" 

"You want to ask him to the Musical Mounties, you can have my tickets," Frannie told Fraser bitterly.

"Oh, I don't think—You're very kind, but I'm really not—" Fraser broke off. Mrs. Vecchio and Maria had their heads together and were paying him no heed, and Frannie was applying herself to her meal. If only there were some escape, but Fraser couldn't think of an excuse to leave. 

Ray had his head down and was concentrated on his food.

Blessedly, Tony made a passing remark about a television program. That caught Maria's attention, and the conversation moved on, building and layering until it reached its customary deafening levels with everyone talking at cross purposes.

Francesca was uncharacteristically subdued, but even she joined in the scathing chorus in response to Tony's admiration for the season's clothing fashions.

"I didn't know you were gay," said a quiet voice from Fraser's left, and he glanced sideways in surprise. He'd been so self-conscious he hadn't even registered that Ray Vecchio's ex-wife, Angie, was sitting beside him. Fraser knew she was an occasional visitor, still considered part of the family, but their visits here had only coincided once or twice before.

"I suppose it never came up," he replied. Despite the fuss, it was a relief not to have to hide it anymore. He offered her a small smile and her mouth widened in response.

"Does Ray know?" She speared a piece of broccoli and ate it. "He wouldn't have a problem with it. My half-brother's bisexual. He and Ray were good friends before Robbie moved to New York."

"I told Ray shortly after we met." It seemed safe enough to venture that far, without compromising Ray Vecchio's privacy. "I don't make a point of keeping it a secret," Fraser added uncomfortably. "It just—"

"It doesn't often come up in conversation." Angie nodded. "I know. It must be especially difficult when you're new in town, making friends."

Fraser was aware of Ray Kowalski sitting next to him, possibly listening in. He wished with all his might he could check in with him, make sure he was okay with how the conversation had progressed, but it seemed too risky. Fraser knew he would betray himself in front of the entire Vecchio clan if he caught Ray's eye now, with his lips still tingling from their kiss in the car, and given the avowedly platonic nature of their relationship, touching him under cover of the table wasn't an option.

He forced his attention back to Angie.

"Is Robbie enjoying New York?" Fraser couldn't fathom choosing to live in an environment even more densely populated than Chicago, but perhaps amongst so many people, one was more likely to find a mate. 

"I got a phone call from him on the weekend," said Angie. "He's having the time of his life. He said he's met some really nice people and he feels like he fits in for the first time in his life."

Perhaps that was it. Nothing to do with the size of the city, nor the sexual preferences of those living there. Just a sense of acceptance and belonging, of coming home. Fraser thought of ice fields and solitude, and the crystal air of the Arctic. He'd left to save himself the discomfort of strained familial relations, and it seemed disrespectful to consider returning only now that his father was dead. But he couldn't stay away forever. He wouldn't. In his heart as well as on his passport, he was still a Canadian.


	8. You went into a burning building for fish?

The excitement over Fraser's sexuality had died down by the time Maria and Francesca brought out the tiramisu, and Ray had relaxed enough to make friends with Donna and her two older brothers. He was discussing a school project on volcanoes with Alvise, and Fraser was chatting with Mrs. Vecchio about her church committee meeting when there was a loud splintering crash from the parlor.

Fraser was on his feet in a second. Ray was already ahead of him. 

"Stay here," Fraser told the Vecchios, and he followed Ray into the front room. 

The window was smashed to pieces, jagged shards hanging like icicles from the frame, and the drapes were ablaze. Flames licked up the walls, curled malicious tongues around picture frames and light fittings. The air was thick with petrol fumes and the heat was oppressive. 

Glittering chips of brown glass were scattered on the carpet along with the cracked tapered neck of a bottle, all of them reflecting noxious orange fire. A Molotov cocktail.

Tires squealed on the road outside.

Ray tossed his cellphone to Fraser. "Call 911 and get everyone into the back yard, away from the house." He was already reaching for his gun. He pulled the lapel of his jacket over his face and ducked through the flames that were spreading into the hallway, yanked the door open and ran out into the street.

Fraser caught a glimpse of his braced arms holding the gun, as he turned first right, then left, scanning the road for the culprit. Then Ray took off down the street, and Fraser hurriedly dialed emergency services and reported the explosion, retreating back to the kitchen as he did so.

Sparks showered down from the ceiling like fireworks and a light bulb exploded with a crack. Fraser raised his arm instinctively to protect his face and edged into the dining room through the smallest possible gap, shutting the door behind him. The doorknob was already hot. "We'll have to evacuate," he announced to the Vecchios. "I'm afraid the house is on fire."

"Santa Maria!" cried Mrs. Vecchio, while the younger women sprang into action. Within seconds, Francesca and Maria had the window open and were passing the children to Angie outside. 

Donna started to scream when Maria let go, but Dief appeared in the yard carrying her doll, and Donna flung her arms around his neck. Her screams subsided to sobs.

There was no way Mrs. Vecchio would fit through the window, so Fraser enlisted Tony's help in guiding her through the stifling, smoke-filled kitchen and out the back door. He saw them all safely outside and did a quick headcount. 

In the distance gunshots rang out. 

Fraser signaled to Dief. "Find Ray," he mouthed. "Help him."

Dief barked and tore off around the house towards the street.

Neighbors were gathering in the surrounding yards, wrapping their sweaters and jackets tight around them and watching the fire take hold of the house. Some held coffee cups, as if it were a public bonfire laid on for their amusement, and others were on their phones, describing the scene loudly and dispassionately.

Fraser grabbed Francesca's arm. "Is there anyone left inside?"

Francesca pressed her hand to her chest. "My heart is _pounding_. Anyone left? Oh, only Ray's goldfish."

Fraser tried to visualize the fish tank. "Which room are they in?"

"Ray's bedroom," said Frannie, "but you don't have to—"

Fraser didn't wait. He pushed in through the back door—the whole house was an inferno, now; thank God the sirens were approaching, blending with Frannie's shout of, "Fraser!" 

He swiped his Stetson from the hallway floor where he must have dropped it, settled it on his head for safe keeping and picked his way up the warping, cracking stairs, careful to keep his weight at the edges.

A dim figure seemed to loom in the doorway to the main bathroom. For a moment it looked eerily like Fraser's father, but it was just billowing smoke. Fraser covered his mouth with his handkerchief and hurried to Ray's room. He heaved the fish tank into his arms and staggered back down the stairs as a beam screamed and crashed through the floor behind him.

It was safest to go out the front door, and as he came out into the cool night air, drenched with sweat and feeling like the skin on his face and hands was stretched and hard from the heat, fire fighters came to meet him. "Anyone else in there?"

"No." Fraser hefted the fish carefully. "This is the last of them." He scanned the assembled throng bathed in flashing red and blue lights from the fire engines, ambulances and police cruisers. There was another crowd of neighbors out here, but no sign of—

Ray pushed through the crowd, towing a short, stubby man with a buzzcut whose hands were cuffed. "Fraser!" he yelled. "Your foot's on fire."

Fraser breathed deeply and detected the odors of smoldering boot leather and melting plastic. "So it is." 

That would explain the pain in his leg. He dumped the fish tank on the stoop, sloshing a good gallon of water onto his boots, which hissed angrily. A deformed bulge of pink plastic gleamed through the scorched hole in the leather.

Ray came forward with the perpetrator, who was struggling despite being surrounded by police officers and fire fighters. "You okay?"

"It's just my prosthetic." Fraser went to meet him. "Who's that?"

"Mob arsonist guy." Ray jerked his head towards the stoop. "What's that?"

"An aquarium," said Fraser. 

Ray tugged his glasses out of his breast pocket and pushed them up his nose, then squinted at Fraser as if he'd sprouted wings. "I don't believe it."

"I know," said Fraser. "It is remarkable, although _carassius auratus_ can withstand fluctuations in temperature far greater than generally known."

Ray glared at him. "You went into a burning building for fish?"

"Not exclusively," lied Fraser. In retrospect it seemed unbelievably foolish to have done so when Ray might have needed his help. Silver-jacketed men with fire hoses ran past, shouting to each other, and a second later water poured into the air, as noisy as the Nahanni Virginia Falls. Fraser raised his voice over the ruckus. "Where's Dief?"

"That's what I came to tell you." Ray looked grave. "He's with one of the EMTs. This farthammer was aiming to blow my head off after I took out his tires and then, in the nick of time, Dief came out of nowhere and knocked him off his feet. Just like in the movies."

Fraser went cold despite the heat of the fire behind him. "Is he all right?"

Ray stepped in and touched his arm. "Yeah. Opus here—" Ray shook the malfeasant by his handcuffs, and Opus growled. "—fell on Dief's leg, so I figured they should check him out."

"Right." Fraser breathed again. "Good. Thanks, Ray."

"Thanks for sending him after me." Ray met his gaze square on. "Probably saved my skinny neck."

Fraser flushed, aware of how close they were standing. "Well, I'm glad." He licked his lip and moved away.

"Yeah, me too," said Ray, apparently to himself. Then he shouted over the uproar, "Huey? Gardino? One of you guys please come down and collect your door prize, one genuine-article, jerkwad-of-the-week mob goon who stinks of gasoline."

A dapper man in a tan winter coat detached from the people clustered around the police cars. "I don't know, Kowalski," he said in a deep voice as he made his way over the snakes' nest of hoses. "You sure you don't want to keep him? He'd look good in your apartment, right next to the jukebox. You could put a lampshade on him, he'd tidy up nice."

"Hardee har har." Ray handed Opus over. "I already Mirandized him, just so you know."

"Yeah, right." A curly-headed man in a plaid sports jacket joined them. "The bits of the Miranda you could remember, anyway."

Fraser bristled, but did his best to hide it. "Good evening."

"And you would be?" The sports jacket man looked him up and down and snapped his chewing-gum.

"Benton Fraser," said Ray, and introduced the two men as Jack Huey and Louis Gardino, the detectives investigating the Volpe murder.

"Not anymore," said Huey, scowling. "I got a call half an hour ago. We're off the case. But before we heard, we met with Warfield. He claims he had no connection with Volpe."

Opus looked from Huey to Ray. "And you believed him? That's fucking bullshit. Volpe was selling Mr. Zuko's private business information to Warfield." He stopped with a gasp and winced at his own gaffe. "Uh, I mean, Frankie Zuko? Who's that? I never heard of him."

Gardino clasped his shoulder and hauled him away. "Sure, right. Come down to the station, we'll show you a picture."

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow thoughtfully. "Would Mr. Warfield have any reason to lie?"

"Could be distancing himself from the murder," suggested Ray.

"True enough, though in our current hypothesis, Volpe's association with Warfield was Zuko's motive for having him killed. If Warfield was trying to distance himself, he should by rights be claiming the exact opposite."

Ray circled his hand in the air, grimacing as if he were trying to speed up his brain processes. Then he snapped his fingers and pointed at Fraser. "This doesn't add up."

"You need a hearing aid to go with those glasses, Kowalski?" asked Huey. "We've been pulled from the case."

"No," said Ray. " _You've_ been pulled. Officially speaking, _we_ were never on it to start off with, despite doing all the legwork for you." Ray pointed at Fraser. "And he's not even a cop." He looked across. "Sorry."

"That's quite all right." Fraser was distracted, mentally laying out the evidence. There was an obvious gap in their information. "I believe we need to talk to—"

"Kilrea," finished Ray, nodding.

"—Elaine Besbriss," Fraser corrected him.


	9. There's a human being in there

"I'll have to go home and get my spare foot," said Fraser, once they'd collected Dief and Ray had maneuvered his car out of the crowded driveway and called directory services for Elaine Besbriss' home address. "And the EMT said Dief should have twenty-four hours' bed rest."

"Okay if we swing by Elaine's first? It's on the way, right? She lives just around the corner from _La Papere_." Ray cleaned the windscreen. "Me, I don't get living that close to your work. How could you sleep with your in-tray looming in the corner of your eye like that?" 

"It saves on commuting time, at least," said Fraser defensively.

Ray looked over his shoulder as he changed lanes, then glanced at Fraser. "I mean, we can go get your foot first if you need it."

"No." Fraser scratched his eyebrow. "After will be fine. And you can wait in the car," he told Dief.

"Hey, uh, I meant to say." Ray shifted his grip on the steering wheel and rested his elbow on the windowsill. "Thanks for taking the heat back there. With the Vecchios and the, uh, gay thing, I mean."

Fraser gave him a half-smile. "It's no trouble. I should have told them some time ago."

"Yeah," said Ray. "Hell of a suckerpunch for Frannie, but it's better than stringing her along. And hey, she took it on the chin."

"Yes, she did," Fraser agreed. 

They fell silent for a few blocks. Then Ray sighed. "Look, this wasn't even supposed to be a case, you know? I've been hurtling downhill like a luge since Stella kicked me out. Last week I had enough. I decided to throw in the towel. I went to Welsh and told him I quit."

Fraser cast him a startled glance. "You're a good cop, Ray."

"Yeah, maybe. I used to be. Lately it's been—no zing, no spark." Ray slowed to a stop at some traffic lights. "Anyway, Welsh refused to accept my resignation. Instead he gave me this body-guarding gig to get me out of the precinct for a few days." The lights turned green and Ray accelerated violently, making his tires screech. "Let me try out being someone else."

They drove passed _La Papere_ , its windows full of candlelight and expensively dressed patrons. "Wait," said Fraser. "The restaurant's open."

"Huh." Ray pulled a U-turn and drove down the alley to the back of the building. He pulled into a loading zone, killed the ignition and sat there with his head bowed. "And now—" He bit his lip. "Now I don't know who I want to be." 

He gave Fraser a troubled glance and dropped his gaze to Fraser's mouth. The heat of their earlier kiss seemed to infuse the air between them, drawing Fraser forward, but Ray didn't mirror his movements and Fraser stopped, embarrassed. 

Ray blinked and looked away. "Come on, Fraser. Let's go catch some bad guys."

He was out of the car before Fraser had a chance to respond. Fraser inhaled deeply through his nose and gathered his fortitude. "Stay there," he told Dief. 

With a long-suffering yawn, Dief rested his muzzle on his bandaged foreleg and closed his eyes.

They found Elaine on her break. She was sitting on a bench outside the kitchen with her feet up on a crate, drinking a glass of red wine. In the light from the small moth-scattered kitchen window and the Exit sign, her black skirt shimmered around her legs. She also wore a patterned green silk blouse and her hair was clipped into a neat twist. "Fraser!" she said, sounding surprised. "Smelling of barbecue."

Through the open door, the cacophony of chopping, sizzling and swearing formed a wall of noise. 

"And Ray," said Fraser. "Good evening. You're back in business, I see."

"We are!" She raised her glass in a toast. "I called the cops and they said the case is all sewn up, and a guy came and took down the tape. Thank God. You wouldn't believe what it costs to shut down even for a single night!" She dropped her feet to the floor and invited them to take a seat.

Fraser sat on the bench beside her. Ray took the crate. Elaine slanted a glance up at Fraser, and he cleared his throat and wished he hadn't sat quite so close.

"We were hoping you could help us with some enquiries," he said, since Ray was apparently distracted rubbing a smudge of soot off the knee of his pants. 

Elaine raised her eyebrows. "Are you guys cops? I thought you worked for Frannie."

"Not as such," said Fraser. "We just—"

"Yeah, we're cops," said Ray. He pulled a badge and a folded piece of cartridge paper out of his breast pocket and showed her the badge. "I'm undercover, so don't spread it around, okay? Now, who has access to these premises out of hours?"

"Detective Kilrea said the case was shut." Elaine sipped her wine and looked at her watch. "And I have to get back to work."

"Kilrea?" Ray unfolded the cartridge paper and handed it to her. It was the caricature from the park. "You mean this guy?"

She nodded. "Brian Kilrea. I rang him after that cop let you two in to look around but wouldn't let me into my own damned kitchen. Kilrea sorted it out and closed the case."

Fraser and Ray exchanged glances. 

"How well do you know him?" asked Fraser.

Elaine shrugged. "Hardly at all, but he owed me a favor. About a month ago he used the restaurant for a stakeout. Stayed here all night. And I thought the restaurant trade had lousy hours. Remind me never to become a cop." She drained her glass and leaned her head back against the wall. "Who has access? The chef, the sous chef, me, the owner and the cleaners."

Ray nodded. "I'm going to need names."

"Fine," said Elaine impatiently, "but not right now. I have to get back to work."

She made to get up but Fraser stopped her with a polite gesture. "Sorry, just one more thing. When Detective Kilrea was here for his stakeout, did you happen to give him a key?"

"Um, yeah. I think so." She frowned then nodded. "Yeah, I did. I gave him a key and the alarm codes. The security company charges a fortune for callouts, you know? He brought the key back the next day and said if I ever needed help from the cops, I could call him personally."

"Thank you," said Fraser. "You've been most helpful."

"Helpful enough you'll let me buy you a drink later on?" asked Elaine, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Fraser got to his feet. "That's very kind of you, but I don't drink."

"Yeah," said Ray. "Plus we got police work to do, so—"

"Oh my God, what happened to your foot?" Elaine had caught sight of the hole burned in Fraser's shoe and the sooty misshapen plastic inside, and was staring at it in wide-eyed alarm. "Are you okay? I can call an ambulance." She reached out to touch his arm.

Fraser stepped back. "That's not necessary," he assured her hastily. "It's a prosthetic."

"Oh." She peered closer and her expression shifted into sympathy. "Oh, I see. I'm so sorry."

"It's no problem." Fraser backed away further. "Really. It's fine."

"He's good," said Ray firmly. "Thanks for your help." They went down the concrete steps into the shadows of the alley.

"Okay, well—" Elaine's voice floated after them. "Good luck with your investigation."

As they walked to the car, Ray rested a warm hand on Fraser's shoulder. "You okay there?"

"I'm fine." Still smarting from Elaine's reaction, Fraser had to steel himself not to shrug off Ray's hand.

They came into view of the car. "We should've gone and got your spare foot before we came here." Ray shook his head. "Stupid of me." 

"It's not important." Fraser pulled away under the guise of moving to the passenger door. "I don't need your pity, Ray."

Ray's footsteps halted. "Hey, pity is the last thing—" Ray followed him into the narrow gap between the car and the rough brick wall of the building next door. "You just seem like you've got everything under control, you know?" he said, advancing on Fraser. "Nothing throws you." 

"I—" Fraser didn't know how to respond to that. _You do._

Ray poked him in the chest. "It's kind of reassuring to know there's a human being in there," he said softly.

For a moment, Fraser thought Ray was going to push him against the car, against the wall, against _something_ and kiss him. Fraser's lips parted in anticipation. But Ray didn't. He studied him for a long minute, then dropped his head and huffed a laugh. "I am so fucking screwed," he muttered under his breath.

He rapped his hand on the roof of the car as if to let off steam, causing Dief to bark a greeting, and he backed out of the gap to go around to the driver's side. Fraser took a few seconds to catch his breath, got into the car and plucked his father's hat off the dash.


	10. Touch me

"Okay," said Ray, when they were back on the road. "So what if Volpe was an undercover cop with Zuko's guys and Kilrea was his contact on the force? That would explain the regular meets. But then Kilrea got greedy and decided to work the system. He stole some coke, hid it in the men's room at _La Papere_ and fingered Warfield for it."

"Right," agreed Fraser, and helped build the hypothesis. "Volpe suspected him, perhaps followed him, so Kilrea set Volpe up. He called Zuko and told him Volpe was double-crossing him with Warfield."

"Based on that, Zuko whacks Volpe and gets his goons to dispose of the body. Meanwhile Kilrea takes the coke and no one's any the wiser," concluded Ray. He smacked the steering wheel. "Man, I hate dirty cops."

Fraser chewed his lip. "We don't know for sure that Volpe wasn't in league with Kilrea. It may have been a team effort initially—"

Ray shook his head. "Not Volpe. You didn't know the guy."

"People can surprise you." Fraser thought of the grim circumstances surrounding his father's murder. "And not always for the better."

"Not Volpe," Ray repeated stubbornly. "Anyway, Huey and Gardino didn't turn up anything incriminating in Volpe's personal effects, so there's only one way to know for sure and that's if Kilrea tells us." He turned onto the expressway. "Which me, I'm thinking is a longshot."

"We need to prove Kilrea's involvement," said Fraser. 

"Only way is if we can place him at the scene of the crime, which is where your buddy Vecchio comes in. We need to talk to him," said Ray. "Where's your place?"

Fraser gave him directions and watched the world go by, worried for Ray Vecchio, but also exhilarated. This was partnership as his father and Buck Frobisher had known it, one of the true joys of police work. And while Ray may have started off as the Vecchios' bodyguard, more or less, he wasn't hesitating to stick his neck out now further action was needed. Fraser respected him for it, all the more because he knew first-hand how rare such a commitment to justice was. The physical and romantic attraction Fraser felt for his new friend was almost secondary to professional admiration. 

Twenty minutes later they pulled up outside Nijinski's Moss Imports. "I won't be a minute," said Fraser. "You might as well wait here."

"Okay."

Fraser helped Dief out of the car, had a brief exchange with him, then sighed and picked him up. "I think it's more shock than anything," he told Ray.

Ray was patting down his jacket, frowning. He held out his hand and snapped his fingers. "Hey, uh, you got my phone?"

"Oh, yeah." Fraser balanced Dief against his shoulder and pulled the phone out of his pocket. It still reeked of smoke and gasoline. 

"Thanks." Ray started to dial before Fraser shut the door.

Fraser carried Dief up the brown-painted wooden stairs to his office and let them in. Dief seemed relieved to be home. He whuffed when Fraser put him down, and hobbled over to lap some water from his bowl.

"Go easy," Fraser told him. "You've been prescribed bed rest. And no, I'm not going to leave the television on for you. The operative word is 'rest'. That means sleep."

Dief whined.

"Well, I know, but it's an important part of the healing process. I'm not being hypocritical. I don't have time to argue about this right now."

Dief huffed and curled up on his pad under the window. He shut his eyes pointedly.

Fraser knew that as soon as he left, Dief would nose out the remote control and watch wildlife documentaries and classic movies until Fraser returned. "Just don't come crying to me when you're still limping in a week's time," he said, and turned to his closet.

In the cool, earthy-smelling office, it was obvious he smelled as strongly as Ray's phone, but there wasn't time to shower. He stripped off his sweater and jeans, and sat on the end of his cot to unstrap his ruined foot. The plastic had melted onto his stump and it hurt to remove it. Fraser gritted his teeth, peeled the prosthetic free and tossed it into the wastebasket.

The skin was irritated but not badly burned. He felt under the bed for a jar of soothing ointment and hurriedly smeared it on the affected area. Ray would be waiting. 

Fraser had just strapped on his spare foot when Ray knocked on the open door. "Hey, just wanted to let you know, Sandor's shift doesn't start till ten so, uh, no hurry. We've got an hour before we can do anything."

"Right. Okay." Fraser stood up and grabbed a clean pair of jeans from the closet, acutely aware he was in his underwear.

"Plus, I made a call. Kilrea drives a 1994 Lamborghini. I figure we should ask him how he coughed up the dough for that on a detective's salary." Ray was looking around curiously at the plain wooden desk covered in neat stacks of invoices and other papers, the matching wooden chair. The kitchen area was little more than a counter with a sink and a microwave, and the cot was crammed in the corner between the filing cabinet, which was topped with the small television set, and a free-standing closet. Fraser's father's footlocker was the only item of furniture worth anything, and even that was mostly sentimental. 

Fraser squared his shoulders. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

Ray went to the window and looked out at the shed, the empty lot beyond, scattered with the skeletons of burned-out cars. "You live here?" 

"Obviously." Fraser buckled his belt and thrust his arms into a fresh shirt.

And then Ray was beside him, right next to him, reaching out to straighten his shirt collar, his eyes dark. Fraser's defenses wavered in the face of his solicitude and Fraser's own desire. 

"Your needs are simple, huh?" joked Ray.

Fraser locked gazes with him. "I wouldn't say that," he said, his voice husky to his own ears.

The veneer of humor fell away. Ray made a noise in the back of his throat and slid his hand from Fraser's collar to his neck, tugging him forward.

Fraser managed to resist long enough to say breathlessly, "Ray, I don't want you to do anything you'll regret."

"Shut up, Fraser," said Ray, and kissed him.

If their kiss in the Vecchio's driveway had been extraordinary, this was earth-shattering. The earlier kiss had been hot and sensual, yet still constrained by the knowledge of their surroundings and all the limits they imposed. Here there were no such limits, no restrictions. They were standing chest to chest, thigh to thigh, leaning into each other, and Fraser was swept away on a tide of desire and need. He needed this. His skin ached for touch. Logically he knew the affair would likely end in awkwardness and disaster, but at this precise moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. His attraction to Ray overpowered all better judgments, filled him with baseless optimism and carnal hunger. 

Ray's hand tightened on his neck, holding him in place, and Ray kissed him fiercely as if he thought Fraser might still be inclined to speech over action and Ray were determined to pre-empt that. Fraser responded by backing him against the filing cabinet and canting his hips forward to rub their erections together. He kissed along Ray's stubbled jaw and said in his ear, "I want you."

"God," gasped Ray. "Good, uh, yeah. Just—" He tugged the hem of Fraser's undershirt free and dragged his fingertips across the skin of his back above his waistband, slid his other hand down to grasp Fraser's rear through his jeans.

Fraser's heart pounded, everything forgotten but this—hasty, desperate hands and urgent mouths, and the scuffle as they clumsily, wordlessly arranged their feet for maximum bodily contact. The filing cabinet behind Ray rocked against the wall and Ray groaned and hauled Fraser harder against him. "Do it," said Ray. "Do me."

He smelled of acrid smoke and arousal, and Fraser breathed him in and stretched the collar of his blue-gray sweatshirt aside so he could lick a stripe up the side of Ray's neck, tasting sweat mixed with the smoke on his skin. He closed his teeth on Ray's earlobe and sucked, and Ray gasped again and hitched up against him, his erection thick and hard. He grabbed Fraser's shirt and undershirt and yanked them up, trying to get them over Fraser's shoulders before abandoning the attempt and feasting his hands on Fraser's half-bared back.

Fraser shuddered at his touch, moved his mouth back to Ray's and then stepped away to pull his shirts over his head. He dropped them on the bed without looking. 

Ray watched him through blurry, dark eyes. He was breathing hard, his lips red, and his tongue came out to wet them. He slipped his hand into the front of his pants and adjusted himself, his full lower lip stretching into a small smirk at the touch. He was swaggering a little, displaying no sign of doubt or hesitation.

Fraser thought he should check, anyway, given Ray's earlier doubts, but when Fraser opened his mouth to speak, there were no words of caution on his tongue. "Take them off."

Ray's eyebrows twitched, a flicker of rebellion, though his hands were already moving to his fly, deftly unbuttoning, dragging down the zipper. It wasn't until his pants were around his thighs, his erection and the stark jut of his hipbones bared to Fraser's gaze, that he paused. "You too. Come on."

So Fraser mirrored him, kicked off the jeans he'd just donned and stood there in only his boxers, his arousal obvious, his flushed skin prickling in the cool air. Ray removed his sweatshirt and the room seemed to still for a moment, a silent breath. 

Ray was lean and wiry, all angles and pale gold skin. His strength was like a chord vibrating through him, from the knobs of his wrists to his collarbone to his knees, his sensuality plain in the tilt of his hips, the curve of his arms. And he was gazing at Fraser's body with open admiration and seemed completely undisturbed by the prosthetic. "Hey," he said softly.

Fraser stepped forward again at once, took his head and kissed him, letting his hands drift down, over pecs and tight nipples, the corrugation of ribs and the faint curve of waist. Ray's body was a poem. Then Fraser's questing fingers met pubic hair and Fraser dropped to his knees mindlessly and nuzzled Ray's crotch, reveling in the heady scent of his sex. His mouth was watering. He turned his head and sucked him in greedily. 

Ray breathed profanities and leaned back against the filing cabinet again, the movement almost dragging his erection from Fraser's mouth. Fraser followed, shuffling forward, and took him in fully, sucked gently and curled his hand around the base. Ray's chinos and briefs were bunched around his ankles, well out of the way. His thighs quivered.

"You—I didn't—" His eyes fell shut. "Oh _Jeez_." The last cry was particularly heartfelt, and Fraser thrilled at the intimacy of what they were doing. The first hints of Ray's pungent flavor made his head spin and his own arousal became a secondary consideration, set aside while he indulged all his senses in this man, the union of their bodies. He nudged Ray's balls and pressed his knuckles up behind them, hoping to bring him even greater pleasure.

Ray stiffened, a groan torn from him, and he clasped the back of Fraser's head and made small jerky thrusts into Fraser's mouth. Fraser looked up and saw him watching them, watching his own erection sliding over Fraser's lips, and the knowledge that Ray was aware, was deliberately fucking his mouth drove Fraser to attend to his task with even more diligence.

He held Ray's gaze and let his finger slide back further. 

Ray shivered and closed his eyes. "I can't—Don't—"

Fraser stopped at once. 

But it was too late—the moment was lost. Ray was suddenly jittery, awkward. He changed his grip on Fraser's head, guided him up to his feet and hugged him. "Hey, uh," he said into Fraser's shoulder, "I don't. I'm not up for that."

"I understand." Fraser kissed his neck. "It's not important. I'm sorry."

"I mean, this—Christ, better than I thought." Ray gripped Fraser's hips. "Don't want to stop. But I can't do that. Not yet."

"We don't have to stop." Fraser wasn't clear what it was that had unnerved Ray so—whether it was just the movement back or a misunderstanding about Fraser's intentions—but either way, it didn't matter. There were plenty of other things they could do, and with Ray's body pressed against his, Fraser's own arousal was growing insistent. He wanted Ray on top of him. He wanted release. 

"It's okay." Fraser raised his head and touched his lips to Ray's. "Lie down with me," he said into his mouth. "Touch me."

Ray nodded, glanced at his watch, then nodded again. "Yeah. Where—what do you like?" He kicked off his shoes and pants.

Fraser swept the cot free of clothes and blankets, lay down on the exposed sheet and pulled Ray on top of him, glorying in his weight. He meant to slow down, now, to take his time, but the rough slide of their bodies took his breath away. 

Ray pushed up for a moment, making a gap so he could align their erections, and thrust against him experimentally, and Fraser rolled his hips to meet him. The cot creaked, and Ray groaned, dug his fingers into Fraser's shoulder and began moving, moving.

Fraser bent his knee to the side, letting Ray's hips press hard up against him, giving him a better angle, slightly off-center, and Ray grunted approval and sped up, momentum building between them. They weren't kissing now, too intent on baser, darker sensations. Ray's eyes were unfocused, his brow furrowed with concentration, and Fraser let his head fall back onto the pillow, caught up in the tumult of blood-hot desire, the ragged sound of their breathing and the tension escalating inside him. It had been too long since he'd done this, since anyone had shared this with him.

Sweat broke across Fraser's skin, a prelude to orgasm, and he grabbed Ray's hip and pushed up, up, seeking and finding what he needed. 

Ray dropped his head to Fraser's shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, give it to me."

And with a shout of pleasure, Fraser did. His cock pulsed exquisitely against Ray's own and spilled. Fraser tried to pull Ray into his arms, hold him close while he recovered, but Ray was busy driving against him, still chasing release. Fraser licked his jaw messily, found and pinched his nipple, and Ray lost control—and at the same time, turned to meet Fraser's mouth, kissed him as he climaxed.

They lay, draped on each other, sweaty and limp, their chests heaving in time. Slowly, Fraser regained his senses enough to be self-conscious of their nakedness, the impropriety of their behavior under the circumstances. 

"We should—" he started, but broke off as soon as Ray stretched out next to him, loathe to end their embrace.

"Mmmyeah." Ray brought his watch up and squinted at it. "Hit the road. Uh, you got a shower?"

"Yes." Fraser sat up reluctantly. However much he might wish to ignore duty's call, he could not. 

"Hey, slow down." Ray pulled him back down and kissed him, a lazy generous kiss that made Fraser's heart ache. "Okay, _now_ we move."

The bathroom was barely a closet, the shower rudimentary, but there was no time for luxury anyway. "You go first," said Fraser. "I'll get you a towel."


	11. This is your guy

"How does Vecchio take his pizza?" asked Ray, pulling into the lot beside Big Tony's Pizzeria. The neon sign reflected in the green hood of the Riviera.

Fraser raised his eyebrows. "Deep dish, with pepperoni and olives."

"Cool." Ray switched off the ignition and drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel for a moment. 

While Ray was showering, Fraser had worried their working relationship would be undermined by their surrender to the physical, whether his own weakness had further jeopardized Ray Vecchio's safety, but in fact the drive over to see the mysterious Sandor was okay, the conversation easy and businesslike. If anything, the dissipation of the sexual tension between them was helping Fraser's focus, and Ray seemed similarly on form.

Of course, that may have been because he didn't think it meant anything, Fraser reminded himself, and Ray's next statement did nothing to dispel that thought.

"Uh, listen," he said, looking across the car. His expression was as hesitant as his tone. "I don't know what that was."

Fraser thought he wasn't being entirely truthful, but whether he was trying to let Fraser down easy or play it cool wasn't clear, and when it came down to it, Fraser didn't even know which of those would be for the best. He had no long-term plans to stay in Chicago anyway. It seemed safest to be noncommittal in return. "I know."

"You're a good guy."

"It's all right, Ray." Fraser picked up his hat. "We can figure it out later. First we have to find Ray Vecchio before anyone else gets hurt."

Ray nodded, his hesitancy falling away. "Yeah." He led the way into the Pizzeria. 

A bell jingled over the door, and the air was warm and humid, full of Russian folk music, laughter and friendly insults. There were sliced pizzas in a heated glass case on the counter, and in the kitchen, half a dozen people were working, shoveling trays in and out of the oven, applying toppings to rounds of dough and folding boxes.

"Yo, Ray," called the genial-faced youth at the counter. "You after a slice, man?"

"Homes," Ray greeted him nonsensically. They banged fists. "No, I'm looking for Sandor. He in yet?"

"He's out back with Tony." The youth eyed Fraser. "Who's this?"

"Benton Fraser, Stanley Smith." Ray pointed a mock threat at Stanley. "Go easy on him, he's Canadian."

"Pleased to meet you, Stanley." Fraser held out his fist awkwardly.

Stanley grinned and bumped it with his own. "Canadian, no kidding." He waved them towards a door at the back of the crowded kitchen.

The Tony of Big Tony's Pizzeria turned out to be a large sweaty man with gloomy Slavic features. He was wearing a stained white apron over sweatpants and a t-shirt, and he had raw dough under his short, blunt fingernails. He was leaning against a desk, going through some accounts with a younger man with curly dark hair and a baseball cap tucked into his belt. 

"Ray, to what do we owe this pleasure?" said Tony. "Somebody die?"

"Just making sure you're still laying on the fruit, Tony." Ray jerked his head at the other man. "Actually, I wanted a word with Sandor."

Tony sighed as if his heart were breaking. "Not just to see my oh so beautiful face, then?"

"Your face is a poem, Tony," said Ray solemnly. "The kind they carve into tombstones." He slapped Tony's shoulder. "This is a friend of mine, Benton Fraser. Just give us a moment, okay?"

"You know the rule." Tony tapped his pen against a glass jar on his desk. It was about a third full of loose change. 

Ray delved into his pocket and dumped a handful of coins into it. "His daughter's college fund," he explained to Fraser. "He does me a favor, I make a donation."

"How old is your daughter?" asked Fraser, wondering how much difference twenty dollars of pennies and quarters could possibly make.

Tony pointed at a baby photo pinned to the wall. "Six months."

Fraser bent to take a closer look. The baby shared Tony's lugubrious features. "She has very intelligent eyes," Fraser told Tony, straightening up.

Ray grinned, but Tony nodded seriously. "My Natasha, she's a brilliant girl. Maybe one day she will be president."

Ray circled his hand in the air, which was apparently a signal that the small talk was over. He and Sandor ushered Fraser into a small storeroom crammed with stacks of cardboard boxes that hadn't yet been folded and sacks of flour. 

Ray shut the door and turned to Sandor. "We need to find a guy. He's in a safe house."

"What's the order?" asked Sandor, as if this were a perfectly normal enquiry. 

Ray glanced at Fraser, and Fraser recited, "Deep dish. Pepperoni and olives."

"The call might have come from this number." Ray handed Sandor a piece of paper. 

Sandor read the number and nodded. "I think—Yeah. I got it. Gimme two minutes, I'll double check the delivery receipts." He stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

"Most of the time he's got a photographic memory," Ray explained, "but sometimes the flash don't go off so good, so I make him check."

Fraser raised his eyebrows. "Do we have any reason to suspect Ray or Kilrea ordered a pizza, and that if they did, it would be from this particular pizzeria?"

"Tony's got an arrangement with the Chicago PD," said Ray with a grin. "He gives us a discount. Guys on safe house duty aren't supposed to order in, but you know how it is. Cops are creatures of habit."

Sandor came back clutching a grease-stained square of paper. "It's like I thought. This is your guy." He handed over the address.

"Thanks, Sandor." Ray slipped him twenty dollars. "See you Tuesday." And he and Fraser left.

As they hurried back to the car, Fraser asked, "What happens on Tuesday?"

"I order a pizza." Ray winked at him.


	12. How did you find me?

The safe house was in an industrial neighborhood near the railway tracks. "You never saw this," said Ray. He reached over and fished a small flashlight out of the glove compartment. "You have no knowledge of its whereabouts, and if anyone asks, you were in the Yukon, okay?" 

"Okay, Ray." Fraser left his hat in the car for safe keeping. "Shouldn't you call for backup?"

"Kilrea's a cop." Ray looked grim. "We have got to make this one hundred and ten percent airtight or the entirety of the CPD is gonna be all over my ass." He took a gun from his boot, checked it was loaded and tucked it into the small of his back. "You sure you don't want to wait in the car? Could get hairy."

"My friend is in there," said Fraser. He felt alert, properly awake for the first time in years. He was tingling with confidence and the anticipation of danger, and he trusted Ray implicitly. 

"Okey-doke. Let's do it." 

One of the streetlights was strobing, buzzing like a bluebottle fly in its death throes. Ray surveyed the safe house, then went over to a navy sedan and crouched down by the wing mirror. A soft hiss indicated he was letting the air out of its tire.

"I thought Kilrea drove a Lamborghini." 

Ray looked up, over his shoulder. "Yeah, this is a pool car. The other cops holed up here with Kilrea might be in on it. I got Casey to check the logs."

"Good thinking." Fraser squared his shoulders. "What's our plan?"

"Our plan is we skulk around back and wait for Vecchio to use the bathroom." Ray started picking his way through the unkempt grass at the side of the building.

It was a less dramatic approach than Fraser had anticipated, and he said so.

"You're unarmed and you're a civilian," Ray told him. "And Kilrea's got a lot to lose. Vecchio's not in any immediate danger. We wait." Ray counted across to determine which apartment they were after. "Stay here." 

He fastened his jacket, pulled on a pair of black leather gloves and began to climb the metal fire escape that adorned the back of the building. The ladder creaked and shuddered under his weight, but held true. 

Fraser stood below, getting showered with flakes of rust and old paint. When Ray was ten feet up, Fraser started to follow, ignoring Ray's hissed instructions to stay on the ground.

They fetched up on a narrow metal landing three stories up, outside a dark window. Ray shone the flashlight through the glass and they saw an empty room. Ray shook his head and moved to the next window, which was smaller and had bars across it. The flashlight revealed a toilet and the edge of a shower. A band of light glowed under the door.

"This is it," whispered Ray. "Now we wait."

Fraser eased himself to a sitting position with his back against the wall. It was a cool night. From the direction of the lake he could hear dogs barking, men shouting. Sirens. Nothing was ever peaceful in the city. Behind them, inside the building, a television was playing, a game show from the sound of it.

"I hate waiting," muttered Ray under his breath. He pulled off a glove and gnawed at the edge of his thumbnail.

Fraser watched him for a moment, then took the flashlight from him, switched it on and held it under his chin, lighting his face. "Once upon a time there was a village in the far north, situated on the shore of the sea they call Beaufort. The people of the village were by and large peaceable, but there lived among them a single, nasty old man. He was cruel and greedy, and not a tear was shed when he finally met his violent death. He died in a—Well, that's not important. What's important is the way in which his body was treated—"

"Fraser?" Ray was staring at him. "What are you doing?"

"I'm telling a ghost story to pass the time. You see, taboo dictated that a cadaver was to be wrapped in caribou skins and covered with heavy stones in order to prevent wolverines and other scavengers from desecrating it—"

"Fraser!" Ray took the flashlight off him and switched it off, but not before Fraser saw his pained grimace coupled with the flash of amusement in his eyes. "Do me a favour. Don't ever say the word 'cadaver' where I can hear you."

Fraser managed to keep a straight face. "What if we were in a morgue?" 

"You can say 'body'," Ray told him. "'Cadaver' gives me the creeping heebie-jee—" A light came on above their heads and he looked up and closed his mouth with a snap. "Game on."

As one, they rose to their feet and peeked in the window. Ray Vecchio was standing facing the toilet, unzipping his fly.

Fraser put a finger to his own lips to signal the need for quiet and tapped lightly on the window to get Ray's attention.

Ray looked up with a start. His eyes widened in shock when he saw them. "Fraser?!"

"Shhh," hissed Ray Kowalski, flapping his hand. 

Someone banged on the bathroom door and it swung open. Fraser and Ray Kowalski ducked out of view. 

"Did you say something?" said a smooth voice, muffled by the glass. "I thought I heard voices."

"Yeah, I thought I saw a ghost," said Ray Vecchio. "Now, can I have some privacy here? I got a constitutional right to use the bathroom in peace, don't I?"

"Only if you make it snappy," came the reply. "Detective Kilrea said to make sure you got plenty of sleep." This was followed by the thud of the door pulling shut.

Fraser and Ray stood up again, as Ray Vecchio slid the window open a few inches. "Benny, what the hell are you doing here?" he whispered.

"Hello, Ray." Fraser felt a grin stretch his face. 

"Benny?" said Ray Kowalski. 

Ray Vecchio cast him a narrow look and then turned back to Fraser. "How did you find me? I'm in a goddamned safe house!"

"This is Detective Ray Kowalski," said Fraser. "He's been protecting your family in your absence. Ray, I'm afraid I have to tell you that your house burned down this evening."

"My _house_?" Ray looked justifiably horrified. "Is everyone okay?"

"Your family are all safe, including your goldfish, and Ray caught the arsonist before he could flee the scene." Fraser tried to push his hand through the security bars to pat Ray's shoulder reassuringly, but the bars were spaced too close together. "We need to know exactly what happened the other night."

Ray glanced over his shoulder at the door. "I don't got long before Franklin comes knocking again, and I really need to pee. Anyway, I've been over it a hundred times already. Can't your detective here just get a copy of my witness statement?"

"Please, Ray." Fraser met his eye. "It's very important."

Ray sighed, shook his head and gave him a warm, rueful smile. "Only for you, Benny."

Ray Kowalski made a strange choking noise and pulled at Fraser's shirt. "Wait a minute! You told me you guys weren't, you know, involved!"

"We aren't," Fraser assured him. "Can we please—?"

"He calls you 'Benny'," Ray objected.

"Nevertheless." Fraser disengaged Ray Kowalski's hand from his clothing and gave it a quick squeeze before letting it go and turned back to Ray Vecchio. "What did you see?"

"Okay." Ray ran a hand over his shaved head and leaned his elbow on the toilet cistern so their heads were all only a few inches apart. "It was a late-night delivery for a nurse who lives across the road from the park. The customer wanted it delivered at two-thirty on the dot, said the nurse was born then, so that was when her real birthday started, and she works the night shift, so she'd be awake. He was prepared to pay through the nose, so we figured why not." Ray shrugged. "I get out of the van with my arms full of freesias, and I see two guys hauling a big floppy package wrapped in canvas into the trunk of a silver sedan."

"Volpe," said Kowalski.

"Undoubtedly," said Fraser.

"Anyway," Ray Vecchio cut in, "the thing was, I recognized one of the guys. We were at school together, the little creep. So I give him a cheery wave, not really thinking about it. 'Hey, Frankie,' I say. 'How's your sister?'"

"He swears and drops the package, and the canvas comes unwrapped and a hand flops out. Then someone starts shooting at me and I drop the freesias and run like hell." Ray rubbed his eyes. "I got into the van, drove off, and when I got a safe distance away, I called the cops and told 'em what I saw. They said to drive straight to the station. And they brought me here." He scowled. "They said it'd just be overnight. They'd pick up Zuko and then I could go home, but now they're talking like I'm gonna be stuck here like some princess in an ivory tower for another fucking week."

Fraser automatically nodded his sympathy. "Ray, I think you were set up."

Beside him, Ray Kowalski snapped his fingers. "Kilrea needed a witness linking the murder to Zuko."

"Exactly," said Fraser. "I suspect that if we make enquiries, we'll discover it wasn't the nurse's birthday at all."

"Brian Kilrea?" said Ray Vecchio. "Wait a minute. He's the guy keeping guard on me."

"Was he at the scene?" asked Ray Kowalski. "At the park that night—did you see him?"

"No," said Ray Vecchio. "It was Frankie and this big lug of a guy."

Ray Kowalski looked at Fraser. "Maybe we're barfing up the wrong tree."

"Kilrea would have stayed hidden if he'd arranged for a witness." Fraser chewed his lip for a moment, his mind racing. "Ray, can you describe Detective Kilrea's clothes when he brought you to the safe house?"

"Yeah, but can I take a whizz first?" Ray sounded peeved. "I didn't come into the bathroom for a change of scenery, you know what I mean?"

"Oh." Fraser nodded. "Certainly." He and Ray Kowalski politely turned away and waited while Ray Vecchio answered the call of nature.

"Okay," said Ray Vecchio, when he was finished. "And no, I can't describe what you said, because Kilrea didn't bring me here. It was another guy who drove me. But he had to leave so Kilrea and a guy called Sam Franklin came and took over."

"What was Kilrea wearing when he arrived?" asked Fraser.

"I don't know!" Ray sounded indignant. "I wasn't paying that much attention, you know? They told me the mob were going to put out a hit on me, maybe threaten my family, I'm not really paying attention to fashions." He closed his eyes and blew out a breath. "Black. He was wearing black. A cashmere sweater—nice cut—and charcoal slacks."

Fraser waited a moment in case more details would be forthcoming. When they weren't, he asked, being careful not to put words in Ray's mouth, "Did you notice anything usual about his clothes?"

Ray frowned. "Like what?"

Ray Kowalski was frowning too, trying to see where Fraser was going with this.

"Were they clean?" asked Fraser, trying not to suggest otherwise.

"Oh." Ray Vecchio thought hard. "Uh, no. He had dandruff on his shoulder, I think. Oh, and I remember now, he had pollen on his cuff. Arum lily pollen. I noticed that because Renfield made an arrangement for _La Papere_ the day before—"

"Fraser," said Ray Kowalski. "I love you."

"Ah," said Fraser. His pulse skipped and he couldn't help looking to Ray Vecchio.

"Not literally," said Ray Kowalski impatiently. "I mean, you know. Good thinking."

Fraser scratched his eyebrow. "Understood. Thank you."

Ray looked away. "I'd bet my eyeballs that was cocaine on Kilrea's shoulder, not dandruff. We got him. We've got to get Vecchio out of here."

"What the hell is going on?" asked the smooth voice from earlier.

Fraser and Ray Kowalski swung back to the bathroom to see Vecchio whirling round to face the door, his hands flying to his pants to check he'd fastened his zipper.

A brown-haired man of average-build man pointing a gun at their heads. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"Oh dear," said Fraser.


	13. Don't shoot—I'm a cop

"Don't shoot—I'm a cop." Ray flashed his badge. "You must be Franklin."

"A cop, huh?" Franklin didn't lower his weapon. "What about him?"

"Him?" Ray jerked his thumb towards Fraser. "Oh, he's Canadian." He made it sound like a mental disability. Fraser tried to look appropriately simple and unthreatening. 

As Ray tucked his badge back on his belt, he fumbled with something and Fraser heard the faint brrrp of a phone ringing and then a tiny click and Detective Huey's distinctive tones saying distantly, "Kowalski? What do you want? Don't you realize it's the middle of the night?" His words were faint enough that none of the others noticed.

"He and _Vecchio_ are, uh, buddies," Ray Kowalski continued. "They had some urgent personal business to deal to, so I brought him here to the _safe house_."

"There's a reason they call it a safe house, Kowalski!" said Franklin, glaring at him. "We don't have visiting hours!"

"I know that." Ray cocked his head thoughtfully. "You know, you might want to get some _backup_ on that—it was pretty easy to track you guys down."

"Kowalski, where is the safe house?" asked Huey from the other end of the phone.

"Why didn't you call?" Franklin wasn't buying the story. "The CPD could have forwarded a message."

"We didn't want to interrupt _Baywatch_ ," said Ray.

"Hey, I'm not complaining." Ray Vecchio gamely tried to defuse the situation. "It's a relief to see a friendly face after being stuck here with you guys for—"

"No one asked you," Franklin told him. "Shut up."

"Excuse me," said Fraser, offended. "Ray has put himself in danger in the interests of justice, and—"

"You two up there!" a gruff voice called from below. They looked down to see a second gun pointed at them, wielded by a gruff-looking man who stood at the bottom of the fire escape.

Fraser's heart sank. "And you would be?"

"Detective Bedford," said the man on the ground. "And you are in deep shit, boys. Come down, nice and slow."

"You know, one man's waste product is another man's fertilizer," Fraser pointed out, but since no one else seemed willing to pursue this line of philosophical enquiry, he sighed and followed Ray Kowalski down the fire escape, hoping desperately that they hadn't put Ray Vecchio's life at greater risk.

Bedford didn't bother to keep up the pretense that he and his associates were above board. He shepherded them inside, where Franklin had Ray Vecchio under armed guard.

"Are you all right?" asked Fraser in an undertone.

"Yeah," said Ray. He seemed more indignant than scared.

"Now what?" Bedford asked Franklin, after he'd shoved them all into the bedroom. "I'd take out the other two, but I'm not shooting a cop."

"Kilrea's on his way," Franklin said. "Tie 'em up until he gets here and he can figure it out." He pointed his gun at Fraser, Ray and Ray while Bedford bound their wrists and ankles. The rope was coarse and it bit into Fraser's wrists. The knots were lamentably secure. Ray Kowalski growled when Bedford found and confiscated his phone and his gun, but there was nothing they could do. From the hard look in Franklin's eyes, Fraser didn't doubt for a second that, should they resist, he'd shoot.

When Bedford was done, he and Franklin went into the living room, leaving the door ajar.

"Now what?" asked Ray Vecchio, under his breath.

"Now we get out of here," said Ray Kowalski. "It won't take long for Kilrea to add things up, and he's not gonna let us go once he does."

"Perhaps we could appeal to his sense of honor. Or, well. Perhaps not. It's possible Detective Huey will arrive in time to prevent him from killing us," Fraser murmured.

Ray Kowalski raised his eyebrows. "You got that, huh?" He glanced at the open bedroom door. "Think they did?"

"I have very acute hearing," Fraser said. "I think they would have said if they'd heard."

"Okay, right. But Huey will have to find out the address of this place—could take him some time." Ray shook his head. "We can't count on him. We gotta get out of here."

Fraser wriggled his foot experimentally. The ropes were tight, but—"If you'd just give me a hand, I think I can—" He shuffled around to get his feet behind Ray Kowalski's back.

"Fraser!" said Ray loudly. "I told you, I don't want to hear one more word about cadavers! Jeez!"

"I wasn't—Ah." 

Brian Kilrea was looming in the doorway, surveying them with suspicion. He was heavier set and more menacing than in the caricature, but still unmistakably the same man. "Aw, fuck, it's Kowalski," he said, in a hostile snarl. "You had to go snooping around, didn't you?"

"You set Vecchio up," Ray shot back at him. "You stole Zuko's coke and you let Volpe take the fall."

"Volpe was an idiot." Kilrea assessed and dismissed Fraser with a contemptuous glance. "I could've made him rich, but he wanted to play the boy scout. You know what happens to boy scouts in the big city?"

"They learn how to tie knots?" suggested Fraser, hoping to buy some time.

Kilrea ignored him.

"They get thrown to the wolves, apparently," said Ray Vecchio conversationally. "Wolves in cops' clothing. And can I just say how truly glad I am you guys managed to track me down?"

"You know, there are remarkably few wolves in Chicago, Ray," Fraser told him. "Diefenbaker excepted, of course."

"I was just thinking that the other day," said Ray Vecchio. "I was thinking, you know what I haven't seen in Chicago lately? A wolf other than Dief. How is Dief, by the way?"

"Can the sideshow," said Kilrea. He pulled out a cellphone and dialed. "Zuko, I've got a package for you, and I'm throwing in a couple of bonus troublemakers." He gave the location. "Yeah, don't mess around with these guys—they're dangerous. Just take 'em out."

"Hey Frankie," yelled Ray Kowalski, "did you know your buddy Kilrea stole your coke?"

But Kilrea had already hung up. He came over and booted Ray brutally in the ribs. Fraser heard a bone snap and winced. "You're going to hell, Kowalski. Enjoy the ride."

" _What_ ride?" Ray gasped for breath. "I'm tied up on the floor with a Canadian and a flower delivery guy in an anonymous apartment in the middle of fucking Packingtown. What _ride_?" Ray strained against his ropes. "I mean, at least give me something to work with, here!

"Oh, you'll get what's coming to you!" Kilrea waved. "Bye-bye, Kowalski." He turned away from the door. "Come on, boys! Let's get out of here before things get messy."

"They're already messy, you sonofabitch!" Ray thrashed like a dying fish. "You've got Volpe's blood all over you! Come back here, asshole. I'm not done—"

The men's footsteps faded but Ray continued to curse at the empty doorway.

"Ray," said Fraser.

"I'm going bust you so hard your shoes explode."

"Ray!"

"I'm going to book you till the pages fall—"

" _Ray!_ "

"What?" Ray flopped onto the floor and looked up at Fraser through panicked eyes. "Hey, sorry about the Canadian crack. I didn't mean that. But Zuko's on his way, and he's pretty much a shoot-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy, so we really gotta—"

"In that case, I think it would be expedient if you sat up," Fraser told him and began shuffling around. "Luckily Bedford tied each of us with a single piece of cord."

"Yay," said Ray with a marked lack of enthusiasm. "Thrifty bad guys—a great step forward."

"Would you shut up and listen to Fraser?" said Ray Vecchio, exasperated.

"Hey, we are at imminent risk of extermination, okay? I think I should get to choose how I go, and I want to go down with a song in my heart and a quip on my lips."

"Ray," said Fraser. "You're babbling."

"I know." Ray Kowalski took a deep breath and let it out. "Okay, what do you want me to do?"

"I need you to unfasten my foot," said Fraser, refusing to feel embarrassed by the request. After all, they'd been far more intimate very recently. Perhaps it was the presence of a neutral third party that made the removal of a limb seem more personal than sex.

"You want him to unfasten your foot," repeated Ray Vecchio.

"Yes, my prosthetic." Fraser shuffled his feet up against Ray Kowalski's backside. "If we can slide my foot out of the ropes, it'll loosen the knots and I should be able to get my hands free."

"Okay, okay," said Ray Kowalski. He leaned back and wiggled his fingers near Fraser's bootlace. Fraser couldn't tell whether or not he was making contact. Then Ray overbalanced and fell back on the foot, jolting Fraser's leg. "Ow!"

"Sorry," said Fraser reflexively, trying to push him up again with his knees.

"No, I—Ow! Jeez, that hurts."

"That would be your broken rib," Fraser told him.

"That would be your foot digging into my broken rib," Ray answered back. "Okay, I think I got it." His fingers brushed Fraser's calf inside his jeans, sending inappropriate goosebumps up his leg. "What do I—? Oh, uh-huh. Got it. Ooh, nice muscle definition."

"You guys want some private time?" said Ray Vecchio.

"Been there, done that," said Ray Kowalski absent-mindedly. The straps that attached the prosthetic loosened. Ray blinked and sat up. "Uh, did I just say that out loud?"

Fraser gave him a grin that was probably more manic than reassuring. "Not to worry, Ray. Chances are Zuko will kill us all before your indiscretion becomes public knowledge." He used his good foot to tug the prosthetic clear of the ropes, and started working his wrists free.

"Hey," said Ray Vecchio, "don't mind me. What you guys do is your business. Especially if you stop chatting like it's a tea party and untie us! I sure as hell ain't throwing any stones."

Fraser slipped the end of the rope free and held up his hands with a flourish. As he did so, two cars pulled up in the street outside, tires squealing. Car doors slammed, and Fraser heard six men with heavy footsteps and automatic weapons start to mount the stairs.


	14. Go, go, go

"Shit," said Ray Kowalski. "Untie me, untie me!"

Fraser crawled around, trailing his prosthetic, and hastily loosed Ray's hands, then started working on Ray Vecchio's while Ray Kowalski freed his own ankles.

"What's the plan?" said Fraser.

"Can't take the fire escape," said Ray. "Bars on the windows."

"Surely that's against the fire code," Fraser objected.

"Yeah, well, when it's a safe house, they don't want anyone getting in—things like fire code tend to take a backseat," said Ray.

"They don't want anyone getting out, either," said Ray Vecchio bitterly. He went to the window and looked out. "No bars on this window but no fire escape, and it's three stories down. Any ideas?"

It sounded as though doors were being kicked in on the second storey. There was shouting and banging, and occasional rounds of gunfire. Fraser hoped the other apartment blocks were unoccupied, and that someone in the vicinity had reported the disturbance.

"We're gonna have to sneak out of here, past Zuko's guys," said Ray Kowalski. "If only those other sleazoids hadn't taken my gun. Fuck!"

Fraser paused in the process of reattaching his foot. "I think I can get us onto the roof."

"What?" Ray Vecchio came over. "How? What can I do to help?"

"If we tie the sheets together, we could use my foot as a grappling hook." Fraser unfastened the foot again and held it up to demonstrate.

"You're nuts," said Ray Kowalski, shaking his head. "But it's all we got. You do what you gotta do in here, and I'll stand guard." He strode over, gave Fraser a quick, hard kiss on the mouth. "Whatever happens, I just want you to know, it's been a pleasure." 

"Likewise," said Fraser, resisting the urge to pull him into a longer embrace. There wasn't time.

Ray turned on his heel, edged up to the doorway and peered around it. There was no sound or movement in the room beyond, so he slipped through, walked crabwise across the living room. He shut and locked the front door of the apartment. Then he started moving a tall bookcase to block the windows. That should have made Fraser feel less exposed, but the shouting and banging was growing closer, and it was harder to distinguish what was going on through the shut door.

He and Ray Vecchio worked quickly, tying the sheets to form a rope and fixing said rope to Fraser's foot. Fraser tested the knots while Ray cracked the window as far as it would go. There was another floor between them and the roof. It was going to be a tricky throw, but it was their only chance.

In the room outside, someone was pounding on the door.

"Ray!" called Fraser desperately. Without his foot, he couldn't go to Ray Kowalski's aid, and it was too much to ask of Ray Vecchio that he step into the line of fire for a stranger.

But Ray Vecchio didn't need to be asked. He helped Fraser hop to the window. "You get this thing up onto the roof, I'll get Kowalski."

"Thanks, Ray." 

Ray squared his shoulders and raised his chin. "If I don't come back, tell Angie I love her."

Fraser blinked. "I will." He didn't point out that if Ray and Ray were defeated, his own chance of escape was infinitesimal.

"Yeah, I was going to tell you, but then all this happened and—"

"No, no, that's excellent news, Ray." Fraser smiled supportively. "Angie's a good person."

"Believe me, I know!" Ray took a deep breath and eased through the doorway.

Fraser leaned out the window and looked up, trying to ignore the shouting and shooting behind him. He hefted the foot-end of the rope, weighing it, and swung it experimentally, getting a feel for the wind-resistance of the sheets. 

A clatter of gunfire exploded behind him as if it were right in his ear. The door splintered and the bedside lamp shattered, and light from the other room streamed through the bullet holes. Worried for his friends but refusing to be deterred, Fraser took a steadying breath and threw the foot into the air.

It arced up, trailing the sheets behind it, thudded against the rain gutter and dropped like a stone. Fraser recoiled out of the way and narrowly missed having it fall on his head.

He hauled the foot back for a second try, armed with the knowledge of what hadn't worked. The perforated door opened behind him. 

"Go, go, go," said Ray Kowalski. He had a gun, and there was an unconscious man on the floor in the other room.

Fraser didn't stop to ask questions. He flung the foot up a second time, and this time it hit the tiles, scraped down to the edge of the roof and lodged there. Fraser tugged experimentally on the rope, then pulled as hard as he could, testing it. It would have to bear all their weight—there was no time for them to ascend individually.

Shouting was getting closer. Fraser leaned one more time on the rope of sheets, judged it safe enough and clambered over the windowsill, hastening upward to make way for the others to follow him.

With only one foot, it was a difficult climb. Fraser had to bear most of his weight with his arms, and it got even harder once Ray Vecchio started to follow, since that pulled the rope taut, giving Fraser less to hold onto. Nonetheless, he thrust one arm after the other, dragging himself into the night.

The rope tensed even more—Ray Kowalski must have joined the climb—and above Fraser's head, the rain gutter creaked ominously. Fraser looked down. A light had just come on in the bedroom they'd vacated. He put on a burst of speed and threw himself up towards the gutter, catching it with his fingertips and managing to sling a leg sideways and drag himself onto the roof.

He couldn't even take a second to catch his breath. He sat up, braced his foot against the dilapidated gutter—if he'd seen what state of disrepair the roof was in, he might never have proposed this escape route!—and yanked the sheets and the Rays up, fist over fist. His muscles shrieked from the effort and sweat prickled his brow and armpits, but he forced himself to keep going until he saw Ray Vecchio's fingers curl over the edge of the spouting. After that, there was only Ray Kowalski's weight to bear and it got easier. Soon they were all crouched together, washed up on the roof of a mob-infested apartment building under the faint twinkling stars.

Ray Kowalski pulled the knotted sheets all the way up and coiled them on the roof. "There," he said. "Now even if they figure out where we went, they can't get to us."

Fraser looked past him to the small roof access door and said nothing. Instead he busied himself releasing his prosthetic from the hard knot of the sheets and examined it for damage. The fastenings had stretched and the toes were scuffed and twisted from the strain, but it was still serviceable enough. He strapped it back onto his leg, feeling considerably more secure with two feet to stand—and, if necessary, run—on.

The ratio of angry shouts and banging to gunfire had increased. Zuko's men must have realized Ray and Ray and Fraser had gotten away. Fraser could only hope they wouldn't track them up here. If gunmen came through the roof access, Fraser, Ray and Ray would be well and truly cornered.

And then, from some blocks away, came the welcome sound of multiple police sirens, their wails filling the air like angelic intervention. They were no longer alone.

Ray Kowalski climbed up to the apex of the roof and beckoned to the others. "See that?" he said, pointing at a black car speeding towards a crossroads. "That's Kilrea's Lamborghini."

He sounded satisfied, and Fraser soon saw why. The sports car was heading straight for the squad cars that were coming their way. Despite that, Ray put on his glasses, took his newly acquired weapon from his waistband and aimed at Kilrea's car.

He lowered the gun without firing. "Out of range," he explained. "I'd need a rifle to hit him from here."

They all watched in tense silence as the Lamborghini approached the intersection from the south and the police cruisers from the north and east. 

Kilrea must have heard the sirens too. At the last minute he careened onto the curb and hurtled across the road in a one-eighty turn, swerving to avoid a dumpster with a squeal of tires that was easily audible even at this distance. He headed back down the road towards the safe house.

Fraser was thankful it was a sparsely populated area and late enough there were no other drivers or pedestrians.

"Now we got him," said Ray Kowalski. "Look!" Fraser followed his pointing finger and saw more police cars coming from the west, all of them converging on this single location, drawing the net tight.


	15. Nice pile of rocks

Zuko's men heard the sirens too. Three of them scurried onto the landing outside the second- and third-floor apartments and shouted to each other. The others continued their rampage through the building with renewed urgency and violence.

Kilrea, cut off by the police ahead of him, pulled another U-turn and drove back towards the safe house with the police cars hard on his tail. He skidded to a halt, and the police cars formed a barricade around him, blocking his escape.

Faced with the police, caught raiding the safe house, the mobsters opened fire, and then all hell broke loose. The police hunkered behind their cars and fired back in self-defense. Bullets ricocheted off the building and peppered the cars. Someone shot out the nearest streetlight, plunging the whole scene into a hellish flickering light from the police cruisers, and still the shooting continued. 

Neither the cops nor the mobsters seemed to notice Kilrea and his men leaving their car and sprinting to the side of the building.

"They're getting away," said Ray Kowalski, exasperation making him quiver. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "Huey!" 

But the police were engrossed in their firefight. The only one who heard him was Kilrea himself, who looked up, took a few steps back from the building, pulled his gun and shot at them.

Fraser and both Rays dove out of the line of fire. "Fuck," said Ray Kowalski. "We're gonna lose him."

They crept towards the edge of the roof. Kilrea hadn't stopped to see if he'd hit them: he and his men were making for the back of the house and, no doubt, the railway tracks beyond. 

Not only that, but the whine of steel on steel and a driving bass rattle suggested Kilrea's luck had changed. "There's a train coming," said Fraser. He could see its headlights approaching from the east. "If Kilrea and his men board it, they can jump off anywhere down the line. There'll be little chance of catching them."

Ray Vecchio growled in frustration. "That bastard had my house burned down!"

"Indirectly, yes," Fraser agreed.

Ray clenched his fists. "We have to do something! We have to stop him!"

"We're trapped on a roof, Ray," said Fraser, quashing his own sense of failure. "What do you propose?"

"There's gotta be something," muttered Ray Kowalski. He was scanning the rail yards. Fraser had no idea what he was looking for. Then his gaze sharpened and his mouth stretched into a humorless grin. He raised his gun, trained it on a target a few meters ahead of Kilrea, Franklin and Bedford and fired.

A winch unwound with a resonant whirr, and a huge quantity of concrete and waste rubble avalanched out of a dump truck, white dust billowing out in clouds, stopping Kilrea and his men in their tracks. 

"Nice pile of rocks," Fraser told Ray appreciatively.

"Thanks." Ray frowned. "But it was supposed to stop them, not just slow them down."

Kilrea and Franklin were already back on the run. Bedford turned his ankle on some rubble, but he limped after them. 

The firefight at the front of the building continued to blaze. The train roared closer, slowing as it neared the switch. The miscreants were getting away.

And then the train's brakes came on with a groan like the earth being torn asunder. The train shuddered to a standstill and the walls of half a dozen cars swung down with a clatter, spilling dazzling light into the darkness of the train yard. Out of the light, as if in a Felliniesque dream, trotted dozens and dozens of Royal Canadian Mounted Policemen in full red dress uniform, on horseback and carrying lances—the Musical Ride. The Mounties circled Kilrea and his men, and they were caught.


	16. You must be Benton Fraser

Detective Gardino took Fraser's statement. They sat in an interview room for nearly two hours while Fraser detailed the events of the last two days and Gardino took copious notes. Fraser read them before signing them; aside from the execrable spelling and punctuation, they were accurate.

Gardino left Fraser to kick his heels in the interview room, and ten minutes later the door opened, and Fraser glanced up to see a stout, gruff, middle-aged man with jowls and a strong air of authority. 

Fraser instinctively got to his feet and shook the man's proffered hand. 

"Harding Welsh," said the man, confirming Fraser's suspicions. "I'm the Lieutenant at this precinct. You must be Benton Fraser."

"Yes, sir." Fraser scratched his eyebrow. "I hope I haven't overstepped—"

"I wanted to thank you for assisting Detective Kowalski in his enquiries," Welsh interrupted bluntly. "It's a troublesome business when a case involves corruption in the ranks. The brass get twitchy."

"I understand," said Fraser. He waited for the other shoe to drop, but no rebuke followed.

"So I appreciate you and Kowalski sticking to your guns under difficult and dangerous circumstances." Welsh's stern expression softened. "On a personal note, I have to say that I think you've been a good influence on Kowalski. A week ago, he was looking to leave the Force, and now he's back on board and all fired up again."

Fraser smiled at the apt description. "Thank you, sir."

They each took a moment to contemplate a re-energized Ray Kowalski. Fraser hoped the Lieutenant's image was more professional than his own mental picture.

Welsh clapped his hands together. "And now it's well past civilized hours," he said. "We won't keep you here any longer." He gave Fraser a business card. "Here's my number. If there's ever anything I can do to assist you, I expect you to use it."

"Yes, sir." Fraser ducked his head. "Would it be possible for me to see Ray before I—"

"Ray Vecchio's in a conference with the Feds." Welsh lowered his voice. "All very hush-hush. They saw his picture and had him locked into a meeting room in ten minutes tops. I can't say more than that."

Fraser nodded. "Right. I, ah, I meant Detective Kowalski."

Welsh shook his head, clapped Fraser on the shoulder and guided him to the door. "Kowalski's going to be tied up with the State's Attorney's office and Internal Affairs for days." He pursed his lips. "I can get him a message for you."

"No, thank you, sir." Fraser smiled, hiding his disappointment. "That won't be necessary." Ray was busy with his duties. No doubt he'd contact Fraser himself after everything was squared away. 

The case was closed.


	17. Do you dance?

A week later, Fraser still hadn't heard from Ray. He'd seen him on the television news, ducking away from the reporters' microphones and looking harassed, but personally speaking, he'd had no word. 

It was disheartening. Worse than that—it was depressing. He'd thought that something meaningful had passed between them. That they had forged a bond through working together and, well, physical intimacy.

But here it was, seven days later, and Fraser hadn't received so much as a phone call. 

He'd tried to call, himself, several times, but the woman who answered the phone had lost interest when Fraser said it wasn't work-related, and she'd been vague about Ray's movements. Fraser got the impression of a growing stack of messages adorning Ray's desk.

Fraser had told himself to be patient, but the stricture chafed.

Meanwhile, everyone around him seemed to be undergoing some sort of life upheaval or another: Ray Vecchio confided over their regular Wednesday-night dinner that not only were he and Angie engaged to be re-married, but Ray was also being trained to help the FBI with a top-secret sting operation in Las Vegas in a few months' time; Francesca and Renfield had, somewhat abruptly, reached an understanding and were dating; the Vecchio house was already being rebuilt amid long, arduous discussions on what alterations should be included in the new design; Dief had spent several evenings at the home of the EMT who'd tended his leg and was courting her poodle, Ante; and Fraser's assistant, Lenny, was enrolling in a business program at the local community college.

The latter plan was engineered by Fraser, who intended one day to pass on the moss business to Lenny, just as Mrs. Najinski had given it to him. But all the same, it felt as if everyone's lives were growing—rich, luxurious and verdant—while his stagnated. The excitement of working the Volpe case with Ray only served to throw his everyday life into dull relief, and he was restless. He felt stifled by his office, by the routine and the paperwork, by the traffic and concrete and thousands upon thousands of people crammed into such a small geographic space, dwellings piled on top of each other, no room to breathe. He missed Canada.

He missed Ray.

It was ridiculous. They'd only known each other a few days and Ray had probably forgotten him already, distracted as he was by the court case and the media attention. It hadn't escaped Fraser's notice that the smartly dressed Assistant State's Attorney on the case was Stella Kowalski. No doubt she and Ray were spending a lot of time together.

Fraser sighed and tried for the fourth time to read and comprehend the new Customs regulations regarding the importing of plant matter into the United States. It wasn't that the changes were complicated; it was that he honestly couldn't care less.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside and he looked up, hope thumping in his chest, but it was only Lenny. "You're still working?"

"Yes. How was enrolment?" 

Lenny shrugged, unsuccessfully disguising his nerves. "Okay. Better than juvie."

"I should hope so," said Fraser absent-mindedly. He looked up. Lenny's shoulders were hunched and he was picking at the flaking paint of the windowsill. "You'll do fine, son."

"I'll try not to disappoint you." Lenny's words were dressed in irony, and his breath created a halo of condensation on the glass. It was getting dark outside already, nearly winter.

"Don't do it for me," Fraser told him seriously. "Do it because you want to. If it's not the path that calls to you, find another. It's not too late to back out."

"Nah, it's okay. It seems pretty cool." Lenny shrugged, and his fidgeting subsided. "Any word from the detective?"

Fraser shook his head. "I suspect Ray's far too busy for anything but the court case." 

"It was your case, too." Lenny's loyalty was usually a balm to Fraser, but this time it only heightened his discontent.

"I'm not a police officer." He pushed the papers away from him on the desk, his appetite for work gone. "I'm not—" He broke off, unsure how the sentence should end. 'Important', perhaps. Or 'anything'. "If the Goodman order is ready for tomorrow's delivery, you can go now."

Lenny nodded, distracted by something outside. Perhaps the car that had pulled up at the curb—Fraser didn't recognize the sound of its engine. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Lenny's expression was peculiar. Fraser was too tired to investigate—he'd follow up on it tomorrow. "Good night."

Lenny left, his footsteps quick and light, and Fraser sat in his darkening office and wondered what to do with himself. He should take his own advice, he knew: if it's not the path that calls to you, find another. If only it were that simple.

He clicked on the desk lamp, casting a golden pool which contrasted with the shadows and the dying light in the sky. Lenny's footsteps re-ascended—he must have forgotten something.

But it wasn't Lenny. It was Ray.

Ray who looked as nervous as Fraser suddenly felt. He was dressed in khakis and a pale blue-gray sweatshirt that Fraser vividly remembered touching, smelling. Over the sweatshirt he wore a well-fitting black leather jacket and he carried gloves. "Hey."

Fraser had to swallow before he could find his voice. "Hello, Ray." Relief burst through him like fireworks. Ray hadn't forgotten; Fraser hadn't imagined their connection. But a week of neglect and disappointment made him cautious. "How are you?"

Ray huffed a laugh and came closer. "You didn't hear? They gave me a medal and now they're shunting me out of view." 

He seemed at peace with the news, but Fraser frowned anyway. "Surely not."

"Yeah, just like your dad's partner. I'm going to work in the US Embassy in some tiny Canadian village called Yellowknife." 

"Yellowknife is a town of approximately 18,000 people," said Fraser automatically, before the news sank in. "They're sending you to _Canada_?"

Ray took another step forward. His eyes were warm. "Thought you could give me some travel tips."

"Well, I'd recommend investing in several pair of longjohns," Fraser told him. Disappointment made his voice heavy. Ray was leaving—there was no chance of continuing their relationship, even if they both wished it.

Ray closed the gap between them and pulled Fraser out of the wooden desk chair. They stood inches apart, gazing at each other. 

"Come with me," said Ray.

"I—I beg your pardon?" Fraser stared at him. "You can't be serious!" 

But Ray certainly seemed serious. "Think of that greek thing," he said urgently. "The slime mold."

"Greek—The grex?" Fraser felt thick-headed and stupid, struggling to keep up.

"Yeah, that." Ray jabbed Fraser in the chest with his finger. "Fate, and everyone ending up where they belong. Well, you know what? You don't belong here, Benton Fraser." His conviction was stirring. As was his proximity.

Fraser stepped back, trying to gain ground on which to think. "I might."

"If you meant to stay in Chicago, you wouldn't be camping out in your office."

A smile tugged at Fraser's mouth. "True enough."

"Your place is not selling moss." Ray leaned in, close, and added softly, "I mean, don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with the vegetable business. It's an honorable profession, no doubt about it. But you're better than that."

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up." Fraser took Ray's face in his hands and kissed him thoroughly. He'd shaved, and his chin was smooth against Fraser's, his mouth hot and welcoming. Fraser was no Sleeping Beauty, but it was nonetheless a fairytale kiss—awakening, world-changing, reducing doubt and loneliness to dust. He moaned softly, despite himself, and surged forward.

Ray's fingers slid into his hair and fisted tightly, pushing Fraser away a few inches. "Uh, go easy on me, okay? I'm still banged up."

"Your rib." Fraser ghosted his fingers down Ray's side, feeling the intimation of bindings beneath the sweatshirt. "Are you in much pain?"

"Right now, the only ache I got that matters is for you," said Ray frankly. He moved in again, and Fraser stifled hunger and exerted all his control to let Ray set the pace, gladly giving what he could and taking all that was offered. He rested his hand on Ray's chest, teasing his nipple through the fabric while kissing gently down the column of his neck. 

Ray gasped aloud. "Oh, boy, I—Yeah. Yeah, gotta tell you, I've been thinking about this a lot. Thinking about you, all stripped down and perfect."

Fraser tweaked his nipple. "I'm not perfect, Ray." 

"Unngh. Close enough," said Ray. "Close enough for me, anyway. Been thinking about all the things—all the things we can—want you, want you _now_." Fraser had reached the angle of his neck, apparently a hot spot that was unraveling both Ray's train of thought and his patience. Ray unfastened his jeans with fumbling hands, and Fraser mirrored him, torn between concern for his wellbeing and the insistent draw of desire. 

"Been thinking about, you know—" Ray's color rose. "Fucking. You done that before?" He pivoted them both and eased himself down into Fraser's desk chair, grabbing Fraser's hip with one hand to keep him close and shoving his undershirt up and out of the way with the other, so he could run his palm over Fraser's belly.

"I—yes," said Fraser faintly. "Not since I came to Chicag— _Oh_." The last syllable bit off as Ray yanked him forward and leaned in carefully to lick his cock. " _Ray._ "

"Mmmm. So you're an American virgin." Ray looked up, his eyes dark with desire, and surprised Fraser with a wink. "I mean, when it comes to Americans." Without waiting for an answer, he returned to his task, stealing Fraser's breath and making his knees weak.

"I wouldn't say that," Fraser managed to gasp. "Not after last week."

"You know what I mean." Ray raised his head again, frustrating and bewitching in equal measure, but his hand was moving on Fraser's length, providing some relief. Fraser couldn't help reaching for his mouth, rubbing his thumb along red lips that were swollen from sucking him. "I got a cherry with your name on it," said Ray, without dislodging Fraser's thumb. "Once my stupid bones have healed."

"It's not necessary," Fraser told him. "There are a lot of things we can do. Many things."

"Yeah, I know." Ray's mouth quirked under Fraser's thumb. "It's just, you know, I'm up for that too."

"Ray, _please_ —" Fraser didn't know if Ray were always so talkative during sex—perhaps it was nerves or perhaps last time had been the aberration—and he looked forward to conducting extensive research into the matter, but right now, he was brimming with desire, need, and he wanted nothing more than to come in Ray's mouth. It was foolish to give a single act so much import, with this man he'd known only a few days, who'd lain with him and then vanished, to return a week later with no explanation for his absence, but it _was_ important. Essential, even. Ray's smile, his touch, his warmth soothed something deep inside Fraser that had been dry and empty for far too long.

"Right, right," said Ray, mischief lighting his eyes. "I got you." And his mouth was back, hot and wet and true, so very true. 

Fraser's eyes fell shut of their own accord, and he rocked forward very slightly to accommodate Ray's limited range. His blood was thrumming, his muscles flexing, everything aligned toward Ray. Ray hummed around him, as if giving voice to their mutual excitement, their mutual need, and Fraser's body, his heart and mind responded _yes_. _Yes_ to this man, _yes_ to adventure. He would follow Ray to Canada, and give the thirsty green shoots of this connection a chance to grow into something solid and enduring. 

Certainty made him bold. He opened his eyes and looked down. "I've missed you, Ray."

Ray's grip tightened, and he pulled free with a slurp. "Sorry I didn't call. Didn't want to get you mixed up in that media circus."

"I understand." And he did. That made perfect sense. Fraser should have guessed it was something like that—that Ray already knew him well enough to know he'd baulk at so much limelight. He should have had faith.

He met Ray's gaze and held it while Ray replaced his mouth, cupped and fondled Fraser's balls and pressed his tongue to the underside of Fraser's cock. It didn't take long for Fraser's orgasm to tighten into a dark, sharp point of inevitability. He choked out a warning and spilled, as he'd longed to, into the slick heat of Ray's mouth, each pulse thick with pleasure and affection.

Fraser folded to his knees and kissed Ray, tasting himself, making a promise he couldn't yet put into words.

Ray was sitting upright on the edge of the chair, his knees splayed and his cock naked and proud amid the open fastenings of his clothes. Fraser dipped his head and sucked him, using all the skill at his disposal to make Ray feel just as desired, just as satisfied. He sought out Ray's skin with his hands, finding and following the edges of the bandages, reveling in the warm smooth flesh beneath. And when he was ready, Fraser opened his throat and deepened his stroke, taking Ray all the way in. 

Ray let loose a string of broken curses mixed with nonsense, rising in pitch and volume. His body tensed exquisitely, and he gave up his satisfaction onto Fraser's tongue, to Fraser's profound delight. 

Fraser swallowed and sat back on his heels. They had much to learn about each other still, but there was no doubt they were in tune physically, that they could pleasure each other, and it seemed they were both more than willing to build on what they already had.

"Too many clothes," said Ray. He stood up, pushing the chair back with his foot as he did so, and stripped his sweatshirt and undershirt over his head in one graceful move.

Fraser blinked. It seemed a belated sentiment, given what they'd just done. Putting the horse after the cart, so to speak, but he followed Ray's lead and realized his wisdom a few minutes later, when Ray had lowered himself carefully onto Fraser's cot, and they were lying skin to skin, Ray's bandage rough against Fraser's side. Their arms were loose around each other, their mouths lazily engaged. Fraser had little experience of post coital cuddling, and it was easily as pleasurable in its decadence as the sex act itself. Apparently there was a lot Ray could teach him.

"So you'll come to Canada with me." It was a statement, smug and certain, as if Ray had heard Fraser's silent promise and taken it to heart. 

Satiated as he was, Fraser felt no inclination to argue, but he couldn't help pointing out the facts of the situation. "We barely know each other."

"We know enough." Ray's reckless confidence was intoxicating. "Oh, except for one thing."

Fraser shifted against him, let his hand drift down Ray's side and curled his fingers possessively around his hipbone. "And what's that?"

Ray levered himself up onto his elbow and looked down at Fraser solemnly. "Do you dance?"

Fraser licked his lip slowly, deliberately, enjoying Ray's reaction. Then he grinned. "I did have two left feet," he said, "but one of them was destroyed in a house fire, so—yes, I suppose I do."

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> The grex story is lightly adapted from _Supernature II_ by Lyall Watson, p59.  
> [I found the Inuit story on this site](http://www.indiancountry.com/content.cfm?id=1028048589).


End file.
